


Rainfall

by LeoKitty



Series: Hugo Weasley [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoKitty/pseuds/LeoKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p>I'm Hugo Weasley, and I'm very nearly ten. I go to primary school, I play the piano, and I enjoy writing in my spare time. It sounds normal enough - until I tell you I'm blind.</p>
<p>Originally posted on HPFF under penname "Leonore"<br/>Diadem Winner 2015 - Most Thought Provoking || QTR SotM September 2014 - Best Written</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King's Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parents are calling goodbyes and I add mine. "Bye, Hugo!", Rose calls back. "I'll be back soon!" Wheels slip and skid as they begin to turn on the rails, and the whistle of the train sounds a musical note through the platform. Then the breeze, as Lily pulls me back away from where the train is gathering speed. Then it's past and the sound fades into the distance. Mum takes my free hand and we leave the station.

**Chapter One - King's Cross**

  
  
Lily's hand is firm and comforting in mine, the only familiar feeling in the chaos of sounds and smells. Something brushes past me and I flinch a little, a habit I don't think I'll ever be able to lose. Lily sees, and although she doesn't comment she guides me round to her other side, nearer to Mum's voice. I can relax a little, surrounded by familiar people rather than strangers. Mum and Dad, and the Potters are here too. I'm focussed on their words and Lily's hand.  
  
James is back; the one good thing about James is he's always audible. He's going on about Teddy and Victoire, who he's just seen "snogging". I wonder briefly what "snogging" actually is, but I'm not going to ask in front of James; James always laughs when I don't know what things are, like it's obvious.  
  
Uncle Harry's telling them to get on the train, and I realise that I haven't asked Lily yet - "what does the train look like?" She can paint a picture for me, the only one who really understands what I want to know. Shiny polished red, the engine, with bright gold door handles. She guides my hand to touch the carriage closest to us, and I feel the handle and the embossed number on the door. The train is cold and smooth beneath my fingers.  
  
People are hanging out of the windows or sitting with noses squashed against the glass. I've pressed my own face against the glass of the window before, feeling the stiff cold smoothness, and I can imagine how funny it must look.  
  
Then she tells me about the station, with the carvings and the big clock on the wall which reads two minutes to eleven. She tells be about the boy running to board the train on time, an enormous eagle owl flapping and squawking in a cage on the top of his trolley; I can hear the bird, and the sound of running feet. Parents are calling goodbyes and I add mine. "Bye, Hugo!", Rose calls back. "I'll be back soon!" Wheels slip and skid as they begin to turn on the rails, and the whistle of the train sounds a musical note through the platform. Then the breeze, as Lily pulls me back away from where the train is gathering speed. Then it's past and the sound fades into the distance. Mum takes my free hand and we leave the station.  
  
Home is strange without Rose. Peaceful. Mum has to go to work, but Dad is staying at home today. I'll go to Auntie Ginny most days, until I start at school again. Lily complains about school, but most of the time I'd rather be there than at home. It's a muggle one, but I've got more in common with the others there than with Rose and the cousins. When I'm there, it doesn't matter that I'm blind.  
  
I've been blind since I was born, and there's nothing the healers can do. I've heard them talking, and it's because of something that happened to Mum before I was born. I don't know what happened to her, because no-one will tell me. They didn't actually tell me anything, but sometimes they forget a bit that I'm only blind, not deaf.  
  
At first it was just playing, but then we got our Braillers and started learning to read and write. Mum learnt to read Braille, but it takes her a long time and I think I hear her turning pages in a book every time she tries. Dad tried once but gave up. At school, we can all read it now, so we laugh about having a language that no-one else can understand. Although we can't read normal writing.  
  
I have my desk in my room, on front of the window so I can feel the sun when it's out. No one moves things in here, so when I sit down I can load paper into my Brailler and write. I write all kinds of things - stories, mostly, when I haven't got anything else to do. Which is most of the time when I'm at home.  
  
Dad calls me to say that lunch is ready, and I know the house well enough to follow the wall into the kitchen. "What do you want to do this afternoon? Play a game?" I turn my head to fix my eyes on where his voice came from. He's not the only one who forgets that I'm nearly ten. "Sorry-" he falters- "Do you want to go out somewhere?"  
  
"What's Lily doing?" She's the only one who doesn't get awkward around me. "Can we go swimming together?"  
  
"I'll ask Aunt Ginny. _Expecto Patronum._ " I fancy I feel a slight tingle of warmth, but it's gone so quickly that I might have imagined it. We get on with eating, just Dad and I in the kitchen - Rose has been to visit friends for meals and things but only one or two in a row. She's not going to be here again until Christmas. Eventually Aunt Ginny's voice breaks the silence to tell us Lily can come swimming.  
  
I learnt to swim with school, so while everyone's always so worried about me going in the water the only danger is of me crashing into people I can't see. And Lily helps me avoid that. I dive, feeling the pressure of the water on my eardrums, then surface and hear Lily squeal when I shake my head and splatter her with water. I get the water out of my ears and lunge towards her giggles, splashing at her.  
  
When we get bored of that we sneak up on Dad - she guides me in the right direction until we're close enough to splash and jump on him. Hands grab and lift me, then I'm falling to smack into the water. Straight away I'm diving and groping around underwater to find and tickle his feet while Lily thrashes around in the water on the other side of him.  
  
Towels wrapped around us, we walk from the lockers to the changing rooms still giggling. A big drip runs down my face from my wet hair, and I shake my head violently again in a way that Lily says is like her dog Snuffles. Then we split into different changing cubicles and I dry off then change. For a long time I couldn't dress myself, but now so long as I know where everything is I can manage. I always stuff my socks into my shoes because that way they don't get caught up in something and disappear. Then we learnt to tie laces at school, and apparently I can do them faster than James.  
  
We drive Lily home first, and in the back of Dad's car we talk about Rose and Albus and whether they've made it to Hogwarts yet. Dad doesn't think so because apparently it's still light outside and the train doesn't get there until it's dark. We make him tell us about his first day again, with the boats across the lake and the Sorting (he flatly refuses to tell us how that's done), then the feast with all of the ghosts.  
  
"So what house do you think Albus is going to be in? James keeps saying he's going to be a Slytherin."  
  
"James says a lot," I point out. "What does James know about it anyway?"  
  
"Your brother was only teasing, Lily. They've both got the Weasley blood, and Weasleys are Gryffindors. Even Uncle Percy, who you might not think was a Gryffindor."  
  
"Why not? Isn't he brave, then?" asks Lily.  
  
"Of course he is; that's why he was Sorted there. But he seems a lot like a Ravenclaw, or even a Slytherin - ambition isn't always a bad thing, Lily."  
  
"What if they aren't in Gryffindor? You said you'd disown Rose if she wasn't."  
  
"Is there anything you don't hear, Hugo?"  
  
"How else do you expect me to know what's going on? By smelling?" Smell can tell me a lot, but hearing's the most useful sense I have. Of course I'm good at listening.  
  
"Do you really think your mother would let me disown your sister for not getting into Gryffindor?"  
  
We lapsed into silence until Lily mercifully started describing what was outside the window. We'd driven this way enough times before, but it was better than silence. When the only reason I knew they were still there was that the car hadn't stopped and I hadn't heard them leave. With only the hum of the engine telling me we were still moving, and I didn't know whether other people were looking at me or not.  
  
Then the car stops, the door opens, and Lily gets out. Aunt Ginny calls from the house, and she and Dad are arranging to meet at the weekend. The Potters and Weasleys meet a lot anyway, so there isn't much to arrange. But if it was strange without James last year it'll be even weirder without Rose and Al. At least it'll mean I won't be stuck on my own with Mum and Dad; I tend to stay in my room because that way I know they're not sitting watching me when I think they're working. I hate silence when there are other people around.  
  
At home, that's what I do: sit back down at my desk and write some more. Rose always fussed over me, bursting in all the time to make sure I was all right. She didn't need to check on me, but I couldn't convince her of that. The best I could do was yell after her to shut the door when she left, but she never did so I had to either leave it or get up and feel my way across the room.  
  
I never thought I'd miss the interruptions. I write a chapter then grind to a halt, tracing shapes onto my arm with a finger of the other hand. It tickles and itches, especially when I brush the hairs up the wrong way. Mum'll be home soon, then maybe I'll go along to the living room for a bit at least until it gets awkward. At least being as I am I can get up and walk out and they blame it on me being blind instead of rude. But if I weren't blind, maybe I wouldn't feel the need to leave. Maybe we'd be a normal family, like the Potters.  
  
The next morning, Mum takes me to Lily's. It was supposed to be her day off, but she has to go in for some important meeting or other. She's trying to help house-elves. The only house-elf I've ever met is Kreacher, Uncle Harry's old house-elf, who died years ago. When I knew him he was too ill to do much, but when we came in from the garden he'd make us take our wellies off first and fetch us hot drinks if it was cold or cold drinks if it was hot.  
  
Now it's Snuffles who greets me at the door, cold wet nose pressing gently against me as I fumble to find his head. He's big and shaggy, and I used to be scared because I couldn't tell when he was coming but he's gentle and comes up slowly enough not to surprise me. Lily's right behind him, pulling me inside, into the kitchen. We can't talk in the hall or the screaming portrait wakes up.  
  
We talk about Hogwarts, and what Rose and Albus are doing.. They'll be in their first lessons now, after their first night in the school dormitories. We told them when they left to write as soon as they were Sorted, but it's a long way for the owls to fly so they aren't here yet.  
  
An audible tap on the window and Lily jumps up to open it. "Which one?" I ask - probably not James' screech owl, because it always announces its arrival with - well - a screech. Plus he hardly ever bothers to write, so I can't see him having done it late on the first evening before going to bed.  
  
"Mercury - I'm going to get Mum." I hear her feet patter on the hard stone floor as she runs from the room. Mercury's wing brushes against my arm and I resist the temptation to jump. He's Al's, a snowy owl. He lets me stroke his feathers while I wait for Lily to come back with Aunt Ginny. Warm and silky.  
  
Footsteps thump down the stairs, almost immediately drowned out by a loud shriek- "FILTHY BLOOD TRAITORS-" A bang and the screeching is cut off mid-sentence. A moment later the kitchen door opens and I hear Lily tiptoe in, followed more slowly by Aunt Ginny. The door clicks shut.  
  
"More like a baby elephant than a young lady; you take after your Uncle Ron, you know! Morning, Hugo."  
  
"Morning, Aunt Ginny."  
  
Lily interrupts. "Mum, can I read Al's letter?"  
  
"Get on with it; read it out loud so we all know what he has to say." Mercury hops away from me and for a moment it's almost silent. I haven't heard the others leave, so they must still be here- Snuffles trots across the stone floor, feet clicking on the hard tiles, and presses his nose against my hand.  
  
Lily doesn't start at the beginning of the letter, but bursts out the piece of information we most want to hear. "Ravenclaw! And Rose is too!"  
  
It takes a second for Aunt Ginny to speak. "Well- I shouldn't be at all surprised; he always was the Ravenclaw type. But it's certainly a break in the family tradition. Now start at the beginning and read the whole thing, Lily, or shall I do it?" I don't really know Al that well; he's always been quiet and awkward. Nothing at all like James. That's a good point actually - at least he's away from James now. But Rose! It's funny, that she's my sister but I don't really know her that well. We all thought she'd be Gryffindor, but if you think about it that's probably the one place she wouldn't fit in!  
  
Al's note is only short. "Dear Mum, Dad, and Lily. I'm in Ravenclaw, with Rose. The feast was very good, and Ravenclaw tower is nice. Now I'm going to bed as soon as Mercury's taken this because it was a long day and I'm tired. Love, Albus." Lily stops. "That's all." She's disappointed; she was hoping for a long spiel about the train ride and the feast, and all the details of the Sorting itself, and what the other Ravenclaws were like, even what the inside of Ravenclaw Tower looked like.  
  
Aunt Ginny laughs awkwardly. "Typical Al. Let Mercury take that letter on to your Dad, Lily. We'll have to wait to see if Rose is any more eloquent when she writes home; we know James won't be!"  
  
Has Rose's letter arrived yet? It'll go to Mum and Dad, as there isn't much point in her addressing it to me.  
  
Now she's downstairs, Aunt Ginny suggests that we take advantage of the autumn sun; there probably wouldn't be much more this year. Grimmauld Place is in the middle of London, so we have to be careful of muggles everywhere. And then there's the traffic, and crowds of people, and the fact that the place is one stinking noisy pit of chaos where all the sounds and smells just blend together. I'm good at telling where sounds are coming from, but there are just too many. And so little space to move.  
  
We go to the park and I sit on the roundabout while Lily pushes it. She gets tired of that quickly enough and jumps on too, and we both beg Aunt Ginny to push it faster and faster. I'm whirling round now, clinging on tight to stop myself from being pushed backwards off the seat. The wind flattens my hair and Lily and I are laughing as Aunt Ginny asks us whether it's fast enough yet and we gasp back that it isn't. There's a metal bar pressing into me uncomfortably but I ignore it.  
  
We slow down rapidly to a halt and I jerk forward suddenly before I manage to brace myself. "Go on, you two; give someone else a go!" Lily takes my hand and guides me off, towing me up a slight slope to sit on a swing. I use both feet to push myself back, setting it moving, then I know how to get it higher and higher.  
  
"Who's higher?" I call across at the top of a swing. She could easily lie, but she wouldn't; besides, I can nearly always tell when people are lying to me. And Lily's a hopeless liar. I only know that because of hearing her telling her parents that she's tidied her room when she hasn't, and the time she said that Al was doing homework when he'd actually sneaked out to buy Christmas presents.  
  
"Me!" she calls back. We're silent again, as I work harder. Up to the top, where for a moment I'm weightless, then coming back down and up backwards, pausing and swooping forwards again- is this what flying feels like? Rose and all the cousins have brooms, and they play Quidditch all the time when we all meet for Christmases and things at Granny and Granddad's. Well, all except Al, who prefers to wander off on his own. But even he plays sometimes.  
  
"Who's higher now?"  
  
"Still me!" Really? I'm working hard enough, pushing the swing up. I know she's not lying. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Just about," Aunt Ginny confirms. One last push - I soar up.  
  
"Now?"  
  
"I think Hugo might just be higher, Lily."  
  
"Only just," she protests.  
  
"Still higher," I insist. I've succeeded, so I stop working now and let the swing gradually slow down. I drag my feet on the ground when it's nearly stopped to slow down quicker. "Where's Snuffles?"  
  
"I've got him," Aunt Ginny answers while Lily comes and pulls me to my feet.  
  
"Can I hold him?"  
  
"Of course!" The rope lead is pressed into my palm and I close my fingers around it. Snuffles tugs on the other end, but not hard. I follow him, trusting Lily to tell me if he's going the wrong way. I trip slightly, once, and he slows down so I can walk more carefully. Then the rope goes slack and I stop behind him, reaching forward with my free hand.  
  
"Why's the boy acting funny, Daddy?" My hand freezes for a second on the gate before I force myself to keep feeling for the latch. I find it and test it quickly to find out which way it moves. It clicks across and I shuffle back to open it.  
  
"Are you alright?" a man asks. All of a sudden my temper wells up inside me.  
  
"Why am I acting funny? Try walking around and opening gates when you can't see anything. I'm as alright as I've ever been and I'm ever likely to be." The gate's open, and I walk out of where I know the gateway is. My hand, slightly outstretched as always, touches something soft and I freeze for a moment before shoving past. I walk as fast as I can, and inevitable my foot catches on something and I come crashing down. Lily and Aunt Ginny catch up and they're beside me in an instant.  
  
I don't bother to move. My cheeks are hot and the anger's gone. Well, the temper that flared and made me shove my way out of the playground, ignoring the fact that I didn't know where I was going. I'm still angry, just in a general sense - with life, the human race, stupid lumps in the ground, everything really.  
  
Snuffles' cold wet nose presses against my face, urging me up. There's no point in lying here; all I'm doing is inviting people to gather round and stare. For all I know there's a crowd of them already. Stupid muggles. I push away Lily's hand and get myself up, and only once I'm on my feet do I let her take my free hand.  
  
"Why did the funny boy fall over, Daddy?" I've just started walking, but I stop and turn to face the speaker. I have to scream, or yell; get it out somehow.  
  
"You try walking around in the dark. See how many times you fall over. Find out who the funny boy is then." I bet everyone's staring at me, but chances are they were already. My throat's hard and painful, my eyes stinging. That's all they're good for, isn't it? Making me look like a baby.


	2. Past and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why not? Why spend my entire life hoping for something that's never going to happen? The healers gave up before I was a year old. And so did you." I shove my chair back as I stand, then give it a harder push to make it fall over. It hits the ground with a dull thud; the floor isn't hard enough to cause a satisfying crash. One hand on the table to keep my bearings, I turn to face in the direction of the door and storm away.

**Chapter Two - Past and Future**  
   
  
Rose's letter is a lot longer than Al's, a great spiel about how she's having a great time and misses us. More detail than anyone would ever care about, but Mum reads it all to me faithfully. There's a paragraph on everyone in her dormitory, most of the other first-years, and a lot of the older students too. Mum hesitates briefly before reading in obvious surprise that Scorpius is in Hufflepuff.  
  
Well, why shouldn't he be? We all know that's where I'll end up, if I actually make it to Hogwarts. Chances are they'll decide they can't be bothered to look after someone like me, that it's too much effort to bother. I suppose at least I could stay at my muggle school with all the other cripples like me. What's the point in learning to do magic when I can't see where I'm aiming it? Gazing into a crystal ball and studying tea leaves - I can see that going well. And potions - I'd be lethal. Hugo Weasley, the only blind kid in the history of Hogwarts. It wouldn't be worth their while to find a way to deal with me.  
  
I'd be better off a muggle. At least they're used to people like me, and they can actually cope. But wizards, they're too convinced that magic can fix everything, and when it can't they don't know what to do. The healers concluded, before I was a year old, that there was nothing they could do. And as there was nothing they could do, it wasn't worth worrying about me any more.  
  
Muggles aren't like that - I mean just look at my school. We've got our own way to read and write - I mean I've got an enchanted quill which apparently writes what I tell it too but I can't actually tell whether it does or not because it's just making parchment a different colour. Some of the others at school have special dogs which look after them, so they don't have to have people with them all the time.  
  
Rose's letter is full of descriptions of moving staircases, missing steps, corridors hidden behind tapestries, all of that. I've heard it described by Mum, Dad, all the aunts and uncles, Teddy, Victoire, Molly- I've heard Hogwarts described so many times I don't care any more. It's all moving portraits, stone walls, flaming torches, suits of armour, and irritating staircases.  
  
"We don't have a password to get into Ravenclaw Tower," Mum reads. "Instead, a bronze eagle asks us a riddle. Today it asked 'What question can you never answer?' and one of the other first-years said-"  
  
"That's a stupid question; there are a lot of answers," I interrupt.  
  
"Are there? Go on then, what do you think it is? Then I'll tell you what Rose says the answer is."  
  
"What's it like being someone else? What if you never existed? What if you hadn't done something- in fact I think that's the answer. What if? We're never going to find out what happened if Voldemort hadn't existed, or I hadn't been born, or if I wasn't blind. More questions: what's it like being normal? What's it like  being able to see? I can never answer questions about what things look like, can I?" My temper's welling up again, and I don't care.  
  
"Hugo!" She stops me, and I can hear tears in her voice. "Just because you can't now doesn't mean you'll never- one day they'll figure something out! You can't just give up!"  
  
"Why not? Why spend my entire life hoping for something that's never going to happen? The healers gave up before I was a year old. And so did you." I shove my chair back as I stand, then give it a harder push to make it fall over. It hits the ground with a dull thud; the floor isn't hard enough to cause a satisfying crash. One hand on the table to keep my bearings, I turn to face in the direction of the door and storm away.  
  
Something catches my foot and I'm crashing down, arms instinctively coming forward to break the fall. I'm used to falling. I kick the thing by my feet backwards, clearing it away from me. The chair. My stupid bloody chair. It won't even let me make a dramatic exit.  
  
Tears prick at my eyes, not just from the bruises. I stand up, fumbling for an object to find my bearings, and my hand meets the kitchen counter. I walk more slowly, feeling my way to the door.  
  
"Hugo!" A gentle hand touches my arm and I lash out, feeling the back of my hand touch flesh. Mum gasps slightly and lets me go, and I make it to the door. Is she following me? I can't hear whether she is or not.  
  
My hand stings slightly, and I wonder how hard I hit her. I don't feel guilty, there's no reason for me to feel guilty... she shouldn't have touched me; I didn't need help...  
  
In my room I curl up on the bed. What's the point in me being here? I just make everyone miserable. Especially Mum. They'd all be better off without me. My hand still stings where I lashed out. Why did I get that angry anyway? Why am I so grumpy? I ruined their lives when I turned up; they have to look after me all the time, make all these special arrangements. They have to read everything out loud, arrange everything to send me to a special school, take me there - Rose's muggle primary school was close enough to walk to, but Dad has to drive me to mine.  
  
And Lily. If it weren't for me, she'd be playing with normal friends. Not worrying about describing things and guiding me around. How many times has she missed out on Quidditch with the other cousins because she was too busy looking after me. She should be enjoying herself, but instead she's looking after me all the time. If it weren't for me, she could do whatever she wanted.  
  
I don't know how long it is before I sit up again. I listen for a moment, then leave my room and creep downstairs. Now the faint smell of cooking hits me. Onions sizzling. Mum's chopping something, making dinner. As far as I can tell Mum doesn't notice me as I away from the kitchen along the hall, towards the living room. At least the cooking sounds never stop, the knife thudding on the chopping board and the wooden spoon scraping in the pan.  
  
Sliding onto the piano stool, I move my fingers over the keys silently playing familiar exercises; I have lessons at school. Suddenly I snap and slam my hands down on the keyboard. The sound is angry, discordant, unnatural. Like me.  
  
It's strange, the difference it makes to break the silence. I find my notes and play my exercises out loud, now, up and down scales before starting on my pieces. I realise I haven't practised for a couple of days; Mr Greg wouldn't be happy. He wants me to do my grade four this term.  
  
I guess that is something I can do; none of the cousins can play the piano, at least not properly. But I started learning at school almost as soon as I started going there, with three lessons a week once I decided I was really interested. It's something the school provide - some of the others do art, some learn to do knitting and stuff like that, and some of us learn our instruments.  
  
Once I actually start playing I keep going, I don't know for how long. In the end, as I'm working on a fingering pattern that I just can't get right, Mum's voice cuts across.  
  
"Dinner's ready, if you're hungry. You can carry on playing if you like; I can always warm it up when you're ready to eat." I play the passage a couple more times before I stand up and hold out a hand to her. Maybe I should say sorry for hitting her, but instead we pretend nothing happened. It's easier walking to the kitchen with her helping me.  
  
It's beef stew, my favourite. I like the carrots especially, all soft and flavoured by gravy. Potatoes that mash easily, so they soak up the gravy too. I stir everything together on my plate, then eat through it. The meat's kind of chewy, everything else blending pretty smoothly together.  
  
To follow it down is baked apple and custard, and I struggle with my spoon to cut the apple skin into manageable pieces. It's sharp, raisins plump and juicy. The custard's hot, a little on the thin side maybe but I'm not really bothered. While no-one actually speaks, I can hear the scrape of cutlery telling me that both parents are still here and eating.  
  
Meal over, I vanish back to the piano. When I get bored of my practise, I pick out made-up tunes on the keys like I did when I first started learning. Adding a few chords makes it sound more impressive, more satisfying.  
  
The next day is Saturday, and both parents should be at home but Mum has another meeting about house-elves. I wake to the sound of rain pattering against the window, not hard but steady. Lying there listening to it, I decide that there won't be much going outside today.  
  
Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny arrive early, as they always do, and we sit in the living room because it's still raining outside. Dad and Uncle Harry talk about the Auror department for a bit, before Aunt Ginny interrupts.  
  
"Why don't we talk about something other than work for a bit? You spend little enough time at home without spending it thinking about work."  
  
"What are we supposed to talk about, then?" asks Uncle Harry.  
  
"I've been thinking about moving-"  
  
"Grimmauld Place is convenient, close to the Ministry and-"  
  
"It'd be nice to have somewhere to get away from all of that. You're working too hard, Harry- isn't he, Ron?" Dad shuffles his feet, giving a non-committal grunt. Aunt Ginny can be hard to argue with. "I'm worried about you, Harry. We need somewhere away from the city, to make it easier to separate work and home. And I'm not used to living in the city. It'd be nice to have somewhere- away from it all."  
  
"Like where? You think I'm working too hard, and you want to find time to go house-hunting?"  
  
"We already own another house, in a village-"  
  
"No!" Uncle Harry cuts across before she can finish. "I can't... Have you even seen that house? It's hardly fit to live in." He argues quickly, desperately. I listen, confused; the Potters own a second house? They've been at Grimmauld Place for as long as I can remember.  
  
"We could look at least, see how much we'd have to do. Don't you think Lily and James-"  
  
"No! I can't live where..." Uncle Harry tails off, and there's an awkward silence. I get up and sit on the piano stool, silently picking out tunes on the smooth cold keys. Something to concentrate on, instead of wondering what's happening around me.  
  
"You never liked Grimmauld Place, either. We could rebuild the cottage completely, if you don't want to be reminded too much-"  
  
"It's a monument, Ginny. You want to just erase it, like it never happened?"  
  
"I want to live in it. It's a house; it's not meant to just sit there, empty. Wouldn't that be the best use? At the moment it's a mark of Voldemort's destruction; we could prove that however hard he tried he couldn't beat us, and we'll always fight through. He destroyed a lot of things, and we rebuild them. Should we have left Hogwarts in pieces as a monument?"  
  
"And The Burrow - Voldemort might have burnt it down, but we built it right back up." Dad finally speaks up.  
  
"It's different! Your parents- your parents didn't..."  
  
"How many people died at Hogwarts, Harry? Does that mean it should stop being a school? We all need to move on, Harry- no, not forget! But why did all those people die? So we could spend the rest of our lives mourning them?"  
  
"I'm not! I just don't see why we should go- there. Isn't Grimmauld Place good enough?"  
  
"I told you, I grew up away from the city. And you need to get away, too. Godric's Hollow is a small village, with open space and fresh air. I would have suggested it before, but it would have been difficult with all of the children. You know what Al's like about change. I thought it would be nice; you know Grimmauld Place is too big for just the three of us."  
  
"Fine," says Uncle Harry dully. "We can go and see. But it'd be too much work to make it safe, let alone pleasant."  
  
"As I said, we can rebuild it if necessary. And I need a project; you're working all the time, Lily's at school, and even with the journalism I still spend far too much time at home alone. We made Grimmauld Place habitable, didn't we? And if you think about the dark artefacts and the state of the place Godric's Hollow will be easy in comparison. Oh- can you imagine having a proper garden?" I can hear the wistful smile in her voice. "With chickens!"  
  
"You always complained about the chickens," points out Dad.  
  
"Well, I won't have to look after them not unless I want to; Lily can do it! A proper Weasley girl knows how to collect eggs and clean out the chickens..."  
  
"You'd better invite all the female cousins over, then."  
  
"What's wrong with that? You see, I won't have to worry about actually looking after the chickens - there are enough Weasley girls who can come over and do it."  
  
"And when they all go to Hogwarts?"  
  
"You can come and visit every day, Ron. You know you miss it..."  
  
I wonder what Uncle Harry's thinking. He hasn't spoken since he gave in, but I know he's not happy. Lily shuffles on the floor next to my piano stool, and I bend down to whisper to her. "Do you know anything about this other house?" Apparently she doesn't, so we're both equally baffled by the conversation. Except for the bit about chickens (Granny Molly has some) and the fact that it's in the countryside.  
  
"Hugo," Dad says suddenly, "why don't you play something for us?" A moment ago they were talking about the new house; where did this come from? Of course, Dad's changing the subject. Well, I like awkward silences even less than him.  
  
I learnt some nursery rhymes ages ago so I play them, Lily singing along once she's recognised the tunes. Three Blind Mice, then Hickory Dickory Dock, and finally the grown-ups join in singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Even Uncle Harry joins in towards the end, if not enthusiastically. Aunt Ginny probably made him.  
  
Mum comes home in time for lunch, and while we're eating Aunt Ginny tells her about the idea for the other house. "We're thinking about repairing the house in Godric's Hollow." The sounds of cutlery suddenly stop, and Mum chokes and coughs. We have to wait for her to clear her throat before she can reply.  
  
"The one where..?"  
  
"It's away from the city, and Harry's working too hard. We need to get away, so why not Godric's Hollow?"  
  
"Um- well, I did see this house, and it was in a bad enough state then. And that must have been twenty years ago now- it's strange, isn't it? It doesn't feel that long." Twenty years ago. I haven't been alive for half of that time yet! "Do any of us really have time to spend making it habitable?"  
  
Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry answer at the same time.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes," Aunt Ginny says firmly. "I'll do most of the work, and Harry can take some time off work to help me with things I can't do alone."  
  
"I'm Head Auror. I can't just take time off when you tell me to. When I'm not running the Auror office, I'm on the council advising the Minister. And with the Quidditch World Cup this coming summer, we have to think about security for the team, and then there are the league finals and semis which of course are always a huge security risk-"  
  
"You used to talk about Quidditch with excitement; now you're moaning about the security risk that the games pose. And you tell me you're not too absorbed in your work?" Uncle Harry doesn't answer, and after a second Mum breaks in again.  
  
"Have you asked Lily what she thinks?"  
  
"Of course!" Uncle Harry seizes on that. "Lily, do you want to leave everything and move to the middle of nowhere?"  
  
"Harry! It's not the middle of nowhere, it's a large village. Your parents obviously didn't think it was the middle of nowhere-"  
  
"Don't talk about them!" Uncle Harry shouts, and I jump slightly. Maybe he sees, because he continues quietly. "So what do you think, Lily?"  
  
"Will I have to go to a different school?"  
  
"Not unless you want to," replies Aunt Ginny. "We'll still have the Grimmauld Place house, so we can floo there in the morning. And we haven't seen the state of the house yet; if it's as bad as Dad and Aunt Hermione say, you'll be almost Hogwarts age by the time we're ready to move in. And we don't have to live there all the time; we could go there just for the holidays, if the travelling is too much."  
  
"It might be nice not having all the traffic. Can I go out on my own if we're not in the city?"  
  
"We'll have to see what it's like there, but I expect so. At least once we've come to know the neighbours."  
  
"Then I suppose we might as well go and look at it, anyway." Lily sounds a bit reluctant, probably worrying about the fact that Uncle Harry doesn't want to go.  
  
"Hugo, would you like anything else?" Mum asks suddenly.  
  
"Wha- No." I stammer out. "Thanks." I feel for my knife and fork again and carry on eating, and I hear everyone else at the table do so too. Dad gets up a few minutes later.  
  
"Anyone else want seconds?"  
  
Mum scolds him laughingly. "Ron! Your appetite was understandable when you were growing so fast, but that was years ago. You don't do enough to burn it off, these days."  
  
"I'm an Auror, and that's an active enough job. Ginny, seconds?"  
  
"Please." She hands over her plate and Dad disappears out to the kitchen where we hear him moving pans around. He comes back a few minutes later.  
  
"You can't really comment on how much I eat; my little sister still eats like a professional Quidditch player, and journalism's hardly the most energetic career."  
  
"I don't spend all day sitting in an office!"  
  
"Nor do I!"  
  
They spend the rest of the meal bickering about whose career is more active, before Dad goes to wash up and makes Aunt Ginny go to help him. We hear the argument continue in the kitchen.  
  
"You don't want to go back to that house, do you Harry?" Mum asks quietly once they're out of the room.  
  
"My parents died there! Of course I don't."  
  
"And Ginny won't listen?"  
  
"She's set on the idea."  
  
"You can't fight the Weasley determination; once they set their sights on something, you can't change their minds. I've tried. You know, maybe it is time to move on."  
  
"Not you as well! I can't just 'move on', Hermione. Could you, if it was your parents?"  
  
She pauses. "Maybe not. Why don't we go there and have a look? It would be an opportunity to visit your parents' graves again, and this time we wouldn't have to rush off like we did last time. No hiding from Death Eaters this time."  
  
His laugh is hollow. "We did a pretty bad job of that, didn't we?"  
  
"Wouldn't you like to go back when we're not in a hurry? Make it a day out, to show Lily where all of the things she'll learn about in History of Magic actually happened, and where her grandparents died. Read all of the messages on that sign by the house, visit the graveyard, maybe see if we can find Dumbledore's old house and his sister's grave. Take Snuffles for a run, perhaps have a picnic? Have the children ever actually had a picnic?"  
  
"That dog! Why did I give it that name?"  
  
"For the same reason as you gave James, Albus, and Lily their names! You know how proud Sirius would be about being remembered like that."  
  
"It's a _dog_ , Hermione. You think he'd be proud of his nickname being given to a dog?"  
  
"He loved being a dog; he'd find it hilarious. Can you imagine them playing together as dogs, and Sirius chewing the furniture and blaming Snuffles?"  
  
"That's what he should be doing! And he would be, if I hadn't rushed off-" Uncle Harry's voice cracks. Is he actually crying?  
  
"Why don't you go and see whether it's stopped raining, Hugo? You and Lily have been inside all morning, you should go and play outside for a bit." We catch Mum's hint and Lily tows me from the room. It's still raining outside, but not hard, so Lily brings my shoes over and we go outside anyway. We walk down the garden and sit down on the wet grass, ignoring the cold water which immediately soaks into our trousers. I can taste the sour rain-smell when I breath in the cold air, and it quickly makes my nose go numb.  
  
"Was Uncle Harry actually crying in the end?" I ask.  
  
"I think so." Lily sounds as confused as I feel. Grown-ups aren't supposed to cry. We sit in silence, hand in hand so I know Lily's still there, as the rain soaks into our hair and drips down our cold faces. I like the rain; it makes me feel alive.  
  
We sit there until Mum finishes talking to Uncle Harry and realises we're outside, and calls us in exclaiming at how wet we are and the state of our trousers and the fact we didn't wear raincoats and that we sat down on the wet grass. I don't know what she's so worried about, really; if we get colds, we only have to drink potions and they'll go away immediately. Mum doses us with pepper-up potion, and I like the funny tickling sensation it causes - even if it does taste bitter. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny say goodbye, not speaking to each other, and Lily goes with them. Just me, Mum, and Dad in the house now. It's strangely quiet, although Mum does try to make conversation. There's no Rose.


	3. Live in Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Honestly, it doesn't make any difference to me whether I've got a good view or not; I can't see either way." I say it lightly, although I'm screaming inside. Why do I have to explain these things all the time, when I'm supposed to be enjoying myself? It's a concert, where you listen to the music. Surely it shouldn't matter whether I can see or not. But I'd rather explain myself than make Mum do it, because she always gets so awkward.

  
**Chapter Three - Live in Concert**

School starts again on Monday, and I climb into the car in the morning feeling a deep sense of relief that the holiday is over at last. I mean I love Mum and Dad, but they're always a bit unsure around me. There's always this sense that they're afraid. They try too hard not to upset me, and to protect me.

The car stops and Dad and I open our doors, and he takes me to the entrance. "Hello Hugo, good holiday?" asks the teacher who's by the door welcoming us back.

"S'alright, thanks. Bye Dad! See you later."

"Bye Hugo." I set off inside, more confident than I ever am outside of school. There's never anything on the floor that we might trip over, and I follow the corridor with one hand on the wall and the other outstretched to warn me before I crash into anything. When I first started here, it was a maze, but within about a fortnight we could all find our way from the entrance to our classroom and the playroom. After five years, I've got a pretty good picture of the entire school. They hardly ever change anything, except for bringing in new toys and equipment. No rearrangements for the sake of it.

My hand touches something solid, and another hand gropes briefly against my chest before drawing back. I giggle, and so does the other person. Outside of school, collisions like this are embarrassing, but we're all used to them. A couple more incidents like this and I'm in the junior common room.

There are two rooms like this, the infant playroom for the younger kids and the junior common room for when we're older. It's all noise in here, chattering and laughing and toys that beep or rattle. And it smells like it has all the time I've been coming here: clean and fresh.

"Hello, Hugo," says a helper as I shuffle across the room to the corner where my class always sit together. At one point my foot nudges someone, and they scoot sideways out of the way to let me carry on. Then my foot touches the beanbag that marks our corner and I go to my usual place, checking that there's no-one else there and sitting there.

"Hi, it's Hugo," I say, stating my name as we always do so everyone else knows who we are when we arrive. Otherwise there's a lot of guessing who's actually there and who we're talking to. The others say hello too, and their names.

"Hi Hugo, it's Aidan. Guess what!"

"What?"

"I've got a guide dog! He's called Benji." I hold out my hand palm down and a wet nose sniffs at it. Some of the kids here have guide dogs, and we all love it when there's a new one. Everyone here wants to get one some day, but for whatever reason can't get them yet. I'm not sure whether it's occurred to Mum and Dad how useful they are; if I do end up at Hogwarts in two years' time I probably wouldn't be allowed one there though, so no point getting used to having one.

Emma, the last of our class to turn up, arrives shortly after that full of stories about going to the beach for two weeks over the summer. We listen, rapt, as always interested in anything new. Emma's a good storyteller. I've been to the beach, but only the stony one near Shell Cottage when we were staying with Uncle Bill and Aunty Fleur. Emma's been to a proper sandy one like in the stories we learn to read with. We have a sandpit here, so later on at break time we'll go and play in it and try to do all the things Emma says she did on holiday. Well, there probably isn't enough sand there to bury our legs under it, but we can make sandcastles.

First we have lessons, and a new teacher takes us to our new classroom and introduces herself as Miss Scott. All the classrooms are laid out nearly the same, and we sit at the same places as in our old classroom. I've got Aidan on one side and Terry on the other. There are only eight in our class, a sensible size when we mostly have to keep track of each other by voice.

Mr Benedict is our class helper again; he's followed our class up for about three years now. Miss Scott settles us down with books and we take turns reading out loud, revelling in our secret language that hardly anyone outside of school can read. Feeling lightly over the patterns of dots, I take my turn.

"The Romans were ruled over an Emperor, called- Kay-zar?" I stumble over the unfamiliar word.

"Caesar," Miss Scott corrects me. "See-zar."

"Was he the one who was stabbed? I remember listening to a TV program about Emperor Caesar." asks Terry.

"That was Julius Caesar. The word 'Caesar' is Latin for 'Emperor', so 'Emperor Caesar' is like saying 'Emperor Emperor." We laugh at the idea.

For the first few years, we read single words, then short stories. Now our reading practise is part of our other lessons. Lily learnt about the Romans years ago, but we started off learning how to tie shoe laces and tell coins apart by feel and generally mastering all kinds of useful skills. She did tell me all about them when she did them in lessons, so I already know quite a bit. Like I recognise the word "Caesar" when Miss Scott pronounces it, I just didn't know how it was spelt.

Once we've read the first bit about them, Miss Scott teaches us a bit of Latin. We spend the rest of the week using "Ave" instead of "Hello" and she invites us to call her "Magistra" and Mr Benedict "Magister".

We have maths after that, then break time. After spelling, Aidan and I have our music lessons, and we go across to the music department together.

Mr Greg is straight down to business, and it's not really until the end of the lesson that he talks about anything other than the piano. Or rather, other than my own piano playing and the pieces I'm learning.

"There's a concert on Sunday, and one of the pieces is the Tchaikovsky piano concerto. You've never been to a real concert, have you?"

"No."

"There's an atmosphere at a live performance that you can't get listening to a recording. And the Tchaikovsky is probably the most famous piano concerto after the Grieg. It's not my personal favourite, but a lot of people love it and it is a classic." He tells me the time and place, and gives me a flyer to show my parents.

"It's a nice program all round, all Tchaikovsky - Romeo and Juliet and the Swan Lake suite in the first half, then the piano concerto in the second. Ask your parents, at least."

"Okay, I'll try to remember tonight. See you on Wednesday."

I do remember, getting the flyer out when I get home. "Mr Greg thinks I'd enjoy going to a concert."

Dad sounds confused. "Mr Greg..?"

I sigh impatiently. "My piano teacher." I've had the same teacher since I started learning; you'd think even Dad would know his name by now

"Would you like to go, Hugo?" asks Mum. "It'll probably be busy and loud, and you know you don't like crowds, but it would be nice if you think you could put up with that." Crowds. People staring at me stumbling along.

"I would like to go," I reply. It won't be as bad as King's Cross station, and I've been getting used to busy London streets from visiting Lily.

"I'll get some tickets then. Ron, would you like to come too?" Dad stutters out some excuse about having work to do then that doesn't fool any of us. He thinks my piano playing is pretty cool but has approximately zero interest in classical music. And while he can cope fine he still gets a bit flustered around muggles. He never went to a muggle primary school, but Mum did - being muggle-born - and she said we should go because it never did her any harm and she couldn't see why we should be different from other children. Plus she didn't really want to drop everything and teach us at home.

On Wednesday I tell Mr Greg that I'm going to the concert and he's pleased, playing me a bit of the piano concerto that I'll be hearing. I imitate it, and he teaches me the first few bars (very slowly, but still). Then we concentrate on my Grade 4 pieces, and as always I can't help giggling when he gets worked up as usual over my lack of dynamics - although I do then make an effort to put them in.

I can't remember ever going out somewhere with just Mum before. Dad drops us off at the concert hall so we don't have to worry about parking, then we climb up long flight of stairs to the entrance. There are other people arriving too, and I hold Mum's hard tight. We count the steps quietly, like we used to do when she still had to walk me up the stairs at home. _One, two, three..._ right to the top, then suddenly I step inside and the air is warm and smells thick and slightly musty in contrast to the stale city smell of cars and cigarettes outside.

There's a low murmur of conversation from further inside, and our footsteps are muffled by carpet. An attendant is inviting us to go further in, and another asks for our seat numbers. Mum gives them, and I stand very still next to her trying to create a picture of the room. Carpeted floors, young attendants, probably a grand place from the way everyone is behaving.

"...through that door, your seat is on the right-hand side." Mum thanks the young woman and leads me across the room and up a small flight of stairs to enter another room. This one's bigger, I can tell immediately; it's cooler, less musty-smelling, and the muttering has a different sort of tone to it.

"Here we are. Do you mind me taking the one with the good view?"

"'course not." So long as I can hear fine, it doesn't bother me whether I've got things in front of me. We sit down and wait as the auditorium starts filling up. I wait a few minutes to see if she'll think of it of her own accord, then ask Mum what the concert hall looks like.

"It's not very big, as they go; just this one bank of seats. They're all the same as yours, and they're red." The colour doesn't bother me; I have no idea what the difference between 'red' and 'blue' actually is. "A few rows in front of us is a space, then the stage. Oh, the seats slope down so everyone has a reasonable view. On the stage are a lot of seats and music stands, all of the drums, and a grand piano. The orchestra aren't there yet. There are big red velvet curtains tied back on each side of the stage."

She adds a little more and then stops when the seats around us fill up. "Would the little boy like to swap seats so he can see properly?" asks a woman suddenly. I jerk round quickly to face in the direction of the voice.

"Thanks for the offer, but it doesn't bother me."

"Are you sure?"

"Honestly, it doesn't make any difference to me whether I've got a good view or not; I can't see either way." I say it lightly, although I'm screaming inside. Why do I have to explain these things all the time, when I'm supposed to be enjoying myself? It's a concert, where you listen to the music. Surely it shouldn't matter whether I can see or not. But I'd rather explain myself than make Mum do it, because she always gets so awkward.

"Oh, sorry." The woman's embarrassed, not sure what to say. The usual reaction. It gets kind of boring after a while.

"It's fine; thanks for the thought." I smile sweetly in her direction, forcing myself to stay calm. Her question was entirely innocent, her reaction understandable. I'm going to enjoy the evening. I won't get angry, I'll just enjoy it. A few minutes more, then a hush falls and I hear footsteps down below on the stage. One instrument plays an A and the rest copy, shifting the notes up and down until they match the first A. Then a second of silence, broken by applause.

"The leader of the orchestra's coming in," Mum whispers to me, and I nod acknowledgement as I clap too. The applause dies down then builds up again almost immediately. "The conductor. The orchestra are standing up for the applause too."

"Hang on, leader and conductor?" I assumed that the leader ran the orchestra, but then what does the conductor do?

"The leader plays the violin and sits at the front of the first violins. The conductor doesn't play, but stands at the front waving his arms around to make the orchestra play in time."

"What makes the leader different to the other violins?"

"I'm not sure, but they must be important or they wouldn't come in after everyone else." I make a mental note to ask Mr Greg on Monday. Mum stops whispering now because the clapping has nearly died down and the concert's ready to begin.

From the silence comes a haunting sound, two clear notes moving together in harmony. This is the Romeo and Juliet Fantasy-Overture. It's quiet, very simple, bare harmony. I lean forward, caught, as the tune shifts to the violins (one of the types of instrument I actually can name by ear).

The music grows, swells, then fades again. I'm expecting it to suddenly launch into a dramatic theme, but it's still soft. Another surge, surely this is it- but no, back to almost nothing again. And in the end- a drum announces the arrival of the section I knew must be coming. Violins flying up and down, faster surely than it's possible to play. Cymbals crash, the bass section thump out rhythms-

And as suddenly as it arrived, it's gone again, another calm before the cello sings out. As the violins take the tune, then pass it to a flute, I hear something in the background that makes me lean forward further. Pure plucked notes ripple out and are gone again. I search my memory for the name of the instrument, but I don't think I've ever heard it before.

I think I hear it again, and again, just for a moment before it's replaced by the violins flying up and down their scales. And I lose myself in the music again, following every rise and fall and jumping when the calm is suddenly broken by the crash of cymbals, feeling the driving force of the drum beat in the background.

My teacher last year told us the story of Romeo and Juliet, so I know how it ends. The flute signals it first, then- there it is, that instrument I still can't name! Rippling up chords in the background, as the violins take the tune and draw it to the drum-rolls and brass-laden finale.

The mood is broken as around me everyone is clapping, and I jolt back into the present and join in. Then I tug at mum's sleeve. "What's the rippling instrument, you know-" I tail off. How do you describe it?

"Nudge me next time you hear it, and I'll see if I can figure it out for you, okay Hugo?" I nod and fall silent, waiting for the next piece.

I hear it at the start of the next piece, but by the time I'm sure it's gone again. So I lie against Mum's shoulder and listen, fingers tapping my leg in time to the beat. The music seems to finish, but no-one claps. I nudge Mum to ask why, and she tells me quietly that you shouldn't clap until the whole piece is finished even when it's broken into parts like this.

I sway along with the waltz, at least until I feel that the tune is kind of repetitive as it's essentially the same one in a lot of different arrangements. At last it's a loud kind of arrangement, with the violins playing very high notes and a triangle jangling away continually, and that signals the end.

A light tune has me tapping my fingers on my leg again, and I'm pretty sure I recognise it. Probably from a TV program or the radio or something. And then onto something lighter, and I clutch Mum's arm. There it is, the instrument I heard, gently strummed, strings of notes ringing out in broken chords. Up and down, up and down. I love the piano, but it doesn't sing like this. The violin joins it, but I'm listening to it in the background, just keeping the beat with ringing notes and chords.

"It's a harp," mum whispers in my ear when the wind come in for a louder bit. A harp! I recognise the name, just had never really heard one before. I lean on Mum and listen to the concert, pushing the idea of the harp back. It's stupid to think about learning to play another instrument; does the school even offer harp lessons? And it's taken me long enough to learn the piano, and I'm hardly amazing at that even after five years playing.

The applause takes me by surprise; the final notes are still going round and round in my head when it starts. "It's the interval," Mum says, and she leads me out back into the smaller musty room. I can smell alcohol now, but Mum only gives me orange juice. "You liked the harp?"

"Yes; it's- nice." That's hardly the right word, but I can never think of the one I want when I actually need it. I feel a tiny bit guilty; I always loved the piano, and I should be looking forward to the piano concerto rather than daydreaming about harps. What are they like? I remember playing on the grand piano in the school hall once, Mr Greg showing it to me so I could hear the difference between it and my normal upright. He opened the lid and guided my hand over to pluck the strings inside, and they sounded a bit like that harp only not as clear.

We go back into the auditorium as soon as I've finished my drink, ahead of most of the other audience members. There's a pretty long wait for everyone else to get back and sit down, then the orchestra file back in and arrange themselves. When everyone's clapping, Mum whispers to me that it's for the soloist, and the conductor's following him in.

For the next half hour I'm leaning against Mum's shoulder, mouth open slightly, as I decide that however much longer it takes I'm never going to be able to play the piano like this. I see why Mr Greg gets worked up over my lack of dynamics when I hear the range that it's possible to generate. The piano resonates throughout the hall, rippling up and down beneath the orchestra or singing out the tune while they accompany.

I snuggle closer to Mum, letting the music wash over me. I don't usually stay up this late, even though it's not a school night. The music builds and the piano booms out, then drops down to a simple quiet melody. The orchestra's more than just an accompaniment. The closest I get to playing with other people is when everyone's singing along to my nursery rhymes. Now the pianist's jumping about with a bright tune in the right hand while the left hand rumbles out a rich accompaniment.

Could I ever play like this? Mum says good soloists learn their music off by heart, and that's what I always do. Yes, it's harder for me to learn the music in the first place and I need someone to teach break it down into small chunks for me to play by ear, but I do have a good memory. Still, using not just a couple of octaves in the middle of the keyboard but the whole range- is it really possible to keep track of the whole lot?

The harp doesn't make a reappearance, and almost before I realise it's over everyone around us is clapping and cheering. I sit up straighter and stretch, then join in. As the applause fades people start to leave, chattering as they go. "Tired?" Mum asks, unnecessarily.

"A bit," I admit. We wait for most of the other people to leave before we find our way out. I grip Mum's hand. "I want to play like that." I'd love to be able to make notes that sing like the harp, but there's no point dwelling on things which won't happen. I know how to play the piano, I just need to keep working on it until I can do it as well as that. Mum always says you can do anything so long as you keep working and don't give up. That's what she says now.

"Keep practising and you'll get there in the end." We walk outside and stand at the bottom of the steps waiting for Dad to arrive in the car.

"Mum?" I ask suddenly.

"Yes?"

"What do harps look like?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (Latin to English):
> 
> Caesar = Emperor
> 
> Ave = Hello
> 
> Magistra/Magister = Teacher


	4. Empires Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm worried by how close some of the people I'm protecting come to being dark wizards. We have to protect political candidates regardless of their policies. Sometimes I wonder whether it was really a wise move for Kingsley to introduce his election reforms; it might be more democratic, but if it allows extremist blood-purists into power is it really a good thing?"

**Chapter Four - Empires Old and New**  
  
"The Romans brought many things with them when they invaded Britain, things which we take for granted today: baths, central heating, straight roads..." It's Friday, and we're reading about the Romans again. Once we've finished reading the passage, Miss Scott explains more about what we're learning.  
  
"Romans had a very good way of making roads, with lots of layers. Now, I've got a lot of those materials here, and we're going to make a Roman road. Only a miniature one, of course!" She has trays with all different sizes of gravel and sand, and we pour them down and smooth them over in the order she tells us. We end up with a tray down the centre of which is (as far as we can tell) a smooth flat road. We line up plastic soldiers on it, mostly legionaries marching with a centurion at the front of each square of ten by ten.  
  
At the very front we have a plastic horse pulling a chariot, except we decide it's funnier to take the man out of the chariot and put him in front to pull it - and to balance the horse in the chariot as best we can. This is pretty normal for our model making. Two years ago, when we were learning about the Ancient Egyptians, we built a model pyramid by pushing rafts across a large tray of water with the "stones" on them then setting plastic people to dragging it to our pyramid. A lot of plastic people ended up having tragic accidents when rocks mysteriously fell from the sky onto their heads. It's a matter of pride, being able to drop an object from about thirty centimetres up and have it actually hit its target. And we got bored of trying to build our pyramid. I think Mr Benedict did it for us in the end.  
  
Soldiers lined up, we discover that if you poke one it falls into another and the whole lot tumble down. They then start arguing about whose fault it was and wrestle, and when the centurion comes to break up the fight loads of legionaries set on him. The horse gets out of the chariot and gallops across the carnage, and by this point the road surface has started to disintegrate. We go down to the canteen for lunch.  
  
It's funny, doing role play with toys like that. You never get any warning of 'stealth attacks', unless the person responsible tells you that the person they're controlling is creeping up on yours. You have to guess where all of the others are and keep track of all the calls of "and so-and-so stabs so-and-so with his sword and so-and-so dies" and "the horse is bored and has decided to go and eat the centurion". A lot of plastic people "die" in our games but it's fine as they always come back to life a few minutes later. I mean when we have a hundred the same shape, you can hardly expect us to be able to tell them apart!  
  
Our class eats together then we all go out to the playground and scramble round the obstacle course. There are actually two identical ones side by side, so more of us can use them at the same time. They're made up of balancing beams and rope bridges, stepping stones and monkey bars. We can hear another class already there, so we just go to another section. We choose a section and take turns racing along in pairs. When you fall off, you climb back up and carry on. Everyone's used to the odd bruise.  
  
Then we have running races, a couple of us walking away about twenty steps then calling back so we can follow the voices. It's always an interesting challenge in which we crash into each other a lot and which descends into chaos when everyone starts shouting and we can't tell which ones we're supposed to be running towards.  
  
The school bell rings to signal the end of lunch and we gather together, forming a long line and hoping that the two guide dogs are taking us the right way (Jenny's had one for a few years, and Aidan's just got his). If they aren't, one of the helpers will come and find us, but really we'd rather manage on our own.  
  
Once inside, it's easy to find the kitchens for our cooking lesson, and within half an hour the room is filled with the smell of fresh cake. All the ingredients are stored in different shaped containers, and the teachers pass us anything we can't find. Mr Benedict guides my hand to tip the icing sugar into a bowl (rather than all over the worktop), and as it flumps down it sends up a cloud of sweet dust which I open my mouth to taste. It tickles my nose and I screw up my face in an effort to not sneeze.  
  
I mix up the butter icing with a fork, squishing the soft butter against the side until Mr Benedict says it's ready. I wait for him to start talking to someone else before sneaking a finger into the bowl and scooping a little blob of icing. Sweet, rich, and creamy, it melts on my tongue. I suck my finger clean and wipe it guiltily on my apron.  
  
"Hugo!" Oops, apparently Mr Benedict was watching after all. I give my most innocent smile in his direction.  
  
"Etiam, magister?" I use the little Latin we've learnt in history lessons.  
  
"Simiam bucculentam es!" I tip my head to one side, briefly, then decide to ignore the comment. He may or may not translate, depending on what mood he's in, and me asking will make very little difference. In fact he'd probably refuse to tell just to be infuriating.  
  
At the end of the day, I have a box of cupcakes to take home. At Mum's insistence we have to wait until after tea to eat them. Dad's called to work as she's handing them out, and Mum teases him when he takes a couple on his way out.  
  
"It'll be a long night," he replies. "The whole department is on alert in case of any trouble with the International Confederation elections."  
  
"Oh yes, the results are being announced tonight, aren't they?"  
  
"Usually no-one cares, but we're concerned about a couple of blood-purist candidates who've been... rather vocal. The Second Wizarding War saw away with a lot of support for people like that, but the ideas still have a small following. The turn-out for IC elections is so low that a small group of devoted believers like that can make quite a difference."  
  
"Who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley? I didn't know you'd heard of the IC, let alone understood politics to that extent."  
  
"Being an Auror isn't all hunting down dark wizards, unfortunately. More acting as bodyguards for political candidates and helping the Law Enforcers with crowd control."  
  
"I'd be worried if we had that many dark wizards for you to hunt."  
  
"I'm worried by how close some of the people I'm protecting come to being dark wizards. We have to protect political candidates regardless of their policies. Sometimes I wonder whether it was really a wise move for Kingsley to introduce his election reforms; it might be more democratic, but if it allows extremist blood-purists into power is it really a good thing?"  
  
"What worries me is the possibility that people will actually allow them into power. We should be able to trust the public to make sensible choices and to remember the dangers of people who basically advocate Death Eater ideals. Now go and keep the peace!"  
  
Dad says goodbye and plants a quick kiss on my head on his way out. Mum and I are left alone, and when we've decided that nothing on the wizarding wireless is worth listening to Mum turns on the TV instead. Apparently it's a variation on a muggle device, running by magic instead of electricity, and ours can show both muggle and wizard channels. Usually we stick with the muggle ones, which tend to be more entertaining, but today we agree on a wizarding one. Mum's interested in how the IC elections turn out, for a start.  
  
Apparently they're not announcing the results for another hour or so, and in the meantime there's some documentary on pure-blood riots. I remember most of the content from a few years ago, the fiftieth anniversary, but they've dug out a load of old recordings from the WWN broadcasts of the time. There's something about a duel, then the voiceover pauses for a sound clip. People are cheering, then-  
  
There's screaming and a strange crackling sound. Mum has her arm round my shoulders, and she seems to clutch me tighter. She's stiff, her hand shaking. I can hear the voiceover again. "Vincent Macnair was accused of use of the Cruciatus Curse on the victorious Norbert Leach, but all charges were dropped - supposedly due to a lack of evidence. Considering that the act took place at the end of a much-anticipated public duel, in front of the press and hundreds of other spectators, it comes as no surprise that most are sceptical of the Wizengammot's decision. Nor was he charged for assaulting the Minister for Magic, or for failing to comply with the terms of the formal duel in which he had just been defeated."  
  
"The main reason that this was overlooked was no doubt due to the immediate events. Fiendfyre erupted in the Atrium, and several spectators were crushed to death in the ensuing panic. The events of November the fifth, nineteen sixty-four, resulted in eighty-three fatalities, and yet no-one was ever charged. It is generally accepted that the attacks were carried out by blood supremacists in an attempt to destroy the reputation of the popular young muggleborn Minister for Magic. But did their actions have the intended effect? Or did they inadvertently drive their target to demonstrate the extent of his courage and devotion to the people, so earning him their respect? Some people would crack under pressure; Norbert Leach excelled."  
  
The sound is cut off suddenly and we sit in silence. What happened? Did the TV break or something? "It's disgusting, what people can do, and how those events are later portrayed. If you want to listen, I'll turn it back on and leave you to it, but-"  
  
"I'm not bothered," I say. I'm interested to know what happened, but Mum sounds upset by it.  
  
"A few years on, are they going to be talking about me like that? How being under pressure, thinking that Harry was dead, realising that perhaps he wouldn't be the one to save us- realising we had to fight for ourselves- are they going to say that the situation allowed us to prove ourselves?" I snuggle against her in silence, no idea what to say. None of my parents have really spoken about their role in the War; we know they were important in it, but not any of the details.  
  
Mum suddenly realises. "We never told you anything about the War, did we?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I guess-" she swallows and tries again. "I guess you ought to know a bit about our role in it, before you go to Hogwarts, because everyone else at school will know who we are. And it's probably better you hear from us rather than just meet it in History of Magic..." Mum tells me about the War, just the basics. How she, Dad, and Uncle Harry spent most of the year on the run, how Uncle Harry seemed to be killed by Voldemort, and how he wasn't really dead - or was he? I don't quite understand Mum's explanation of this point - and how he killed Voldemort. I've heard enough TV and radio programs referring to Uncle Harry as "the hero of the Second Wizarding War", "the Boy Who Lived", and "the Chosen One", but somehow I didn't realise that he himself had killed Voldemort. I've never actually listened to a program on the War. Maybe Mum and Dad avoid putting them on.  
  
"Oh! The election special should be starting now." The TV comes back to live mid-sentence  
  
"-waiting for the first results to be announced. Now we go live to my colleague in Diagon Alley; Teddy, what's happening over there?" Teddy? Our Teddy? Mum sits forward slightly.  
  
"He never told us he'd got a job as a TV reporter! I thought he was still looking for work." The Wizarding Broadcasting Corporation is pretty new, the magical TV something which Dad was reluctant to buy until Mum pointed out that he could watch Quidditch matches on it. And now our Teddy's calm, even voice is coming from the set.  
  
"Yes, hello Susan. As you can see, there's quite a crowd behind me, which is surprising considering the low turnout at the polling stations today. I'm standing next to Gringott's bank, inside which goblins and ministry wizards are currently checking the results. I'm hearing that the International Confederation representative for London should be announced in the next half an hour; I'll keep you updated on the situation here until then."  
  
"Thank you Teddy. So none of the regions have declared yet, but we're expecting that to all change very soon. This is a new system; in the past, International Confederation representatives were always chosen by the Minister for Magic, but as you know Kingsley Shacklebolt has recently introduced new reforms to the election procedures, giving the people a greater say in how the country is run. This is closer to the system used in Australia, Brazil, and many other countries around the world. Terry Boot, one of our political correspondents, is in Australia now. Terry, can you hear me?"  
  
"Loud and clear, Susan!"  
  
"He seems to have survived his long-range portkey. So Terry, what's the situation over there?"  
  
"For a start, it's about six in the morning over here! Which is probably for the best, because you would not believe how hot it's going to get in the next few hours. Results here were announced yesterday evening, late morning in your time, and the successful candidates are now celebrating. There's been quite an upheaval, the previous Chief Warlock Tony Richards losing his seat by a huge margin as his opponent, Tara Mundine, stormed to the top of the poll in Queensland as only the second aboriginal woman to be elected to the International Confederation since they introduced the public vote here in Australia. In fact this year has been the best yet for female candidates, with three of Australia's eight seats being taken by women; in comparison, they had an abysmal showing last year without a single woman elected, prompting many to challenge the country's claims of gender equality. While they still have not drawn equal on number of seats, this year's result was a huge improvement..."  
  
The reporter carries on, then there are a couple of sound clips of first a woman then a man talking in drawling Australian accents. The woman's talking about how pleased and surprised she is to have won, and thanking everyone who voted for her. The man is the old chief warlock, saying how disappointed he is but- he speaks very quickly-  Mundine is a worthy winner and he's very willing to congratulate her.  
  
They go back to the studio, where the presenter goes back to Teddy in Diagon Alley and discovers that the results are still being validated, then, "Over to Seamus, who's in Dublin."  
  
"Seamus?" Mum whispers in surprise. "He was in my year at Hogwarts, in Gryffindor. I was wondering the other day what he was doing now."  
  
"I am indeed, Susan! I'm here in the main hall of the Irish Ministry of Magic, and as you can see the counters are busy behind me adding up votes. I know over in Britain you use magical methods, but over here as Squibs also have the right to vote we use muggle-style ballot papers. It does make for a rather more exciting count and a lot more suspense; you can see the spectators on the galleries around the hall."  
  
"It's pretty impressive, Hugo," says Mum. "They've got a huge hall filled with long tables, and at all of the tables people are directing papers to fly into piles. Then more people are taking the piles of sorted papers and counting them up. There's paper flying everywhere without a single collision, and there are crowds of wizards on balconies peering down."  
  
"Now as you can guess," Seamus continues, "we're quite a way from getting a result. Using magic makes this a lot quicker than a muggle count, but I'd still estimate another two hours, more if the results are challenged and we have to recount."  
  
"Thank you, Seamus, and we'll be back in Dublin later to find out how things are going there. But for now, the first of the British results should be in very shortly. I have Percy Weasley, the Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation, here with me."  
  
"Uncle Percy?" I ask. He's the uncle I know least well, who turns up at Weasley Christmases but doesn't say much; when he does, it's always about his work and how his daughter Molly is doing at Hogwarts. She's in James' year at Hogwarts and practically the opposite or him: quiet, patient, tactful, and a bit of a genius - at least in front of her parents. Away from them, she's the most outspoken of us all and always a good laugh.  
  
"That's right." Uncle Percy waffles a lot about the importance of these elections to Britain's standing in the magical world and about the huge step that has been made by allowing the public to vote for representatives rather than the Minister just choosing them.  
  
"Sorry, can I cut you off there for a minute, Percy; I think we might have our first result coming in!" Susan interrupts him, not before time. Uncle Percy tends to be pretty quiet at gatherings, but when he does start talking he doesn't know when to stop.  
  
"That's right, Susan, the local returning officer has just come out of Gringotts, and the candidates are waiting..." He tails off and we hear a strange voice listing names and numbers. It doesn't mean anything to me, but suddenly a cheer goes up, and almost instantly its swallowed by boos. "Not a popular decision," says Teddy. "A wizard who has made it quite clear throughout his campaign that he believes wizards to be superior to muggles and magical creatures. There are no end of challenges to the International Statute for Secrecy, but it's rare for one to achieve such public support."  
  
"There's your Dad!" says Mum suddenly. "He's at the top of the steps outside Gringotts, just behind the candidates and the returning officer- with his wand out. The Law Enforcers are in the street behind Teddy, stopping people from fighting.  
  
"A very interesting result." We've cut back to Susan and the studio. "I've got our team of political analysts here. So what do you think of this result? And of the new system - has Minister Shacklebolt made the right decision in this case? Is there a message here about what the British Wizarding society find important?"  
  
"Well, Susan, it certainly does raise some questions. It's only ten years since the Squib Rights Act was passed, and of course we all know the opposition it faced recently. Add to that the reforms to the Werewolf Registry, the ongoing discussions regarding the possession of wands by non-humans, and of course the great interest in Hermione Weasley's house-elf protection society-"  
  
"That's you, Mum!" She hushes me quickly so we can carry on listening.  
  
"-Does this result suggest that we have all misread the opinions of the general public? There are always opponents to change, but for a candidate openly against such changes to gain a majority in a public poll-" Someone else interrupts.  
  
"But judging by the reaction when the result was announced, the majority are not behind him. First of all, there was a very poor turnout - less than twenty-five percent of the wizarding population in Britain. Is it not likely that those who choose to vote are the ones with strong opinions, those who disagree with the current direction of the government and wish to send a message. Those who agree with the current status quo are less likely to realise the need to make their voices heard."  
  
"Indeed. And also if you consider the candidates standing, most are supporters of the current equality movements. So those with less radical views gave their support to the one they liked best of those- was it six? And those who believe in wizard supremacy and an end to the Statute had only one choice. The winner received less than half of the votes, so if it had been a straight battle between someone for and someone against equality movements and the statute the result would be different."  
  
"So you think that several similar candidates running against each other increased the prospects of the one candidate with a very different view?"  
  
"That seems a logical conclusion, Susan."  
  
"So you believe that the idea of wizarding supremacy is still a minority opinion; does this raise questions about the suitability of the election system, if the minority opinion can win out overall?"  
  
"Certainly it raises questions. I maintain that it is a huge step forward that the Minister has made, giving the people a greater say in how the country is represented, however the candidates perhaps need to take into account how the votes are likely to be split between those with similar policies. The logical step now would be for them to agree that perhaps it would be better for those with similar ideals to group together and select just one of them to stand, rather than competing against each other."  
  
"But would they be willing to do that? It would require many would-be candidates to sacrifice every chance of winning, giving up on their dreams."  
  
"If they have a choice between being part of a winning team or standing alone and praying for a stroke of luck, they will have to think about whether they stand for their policies or themselves. They claim to want power so that they can bring about certain changes, so either they will make sacrifices to bring about those changes or they are lying about their devotion to their policies."  
  
"An excellent point. So you believe that the victory today was more due to a lack of votes for the other candidates than support for the winner. But there was support for the winner, clearly. Should we be worried that there is clearly a considerable portion of the population who support wizard supremacy - the main motive for countless Dark Wizards through the centuries and the key aim of the Death Eaters? Considering the number of Death Eaters in Azkaban who have not played a part in this election, is it the number with similar ideals who are still in Britain not surprising?"  
  
"I think it is unfair to compare all of those who believe in wizard supremacy to the Death Eaters. There is no evidence to suggest that they are all willing to go to such lengths."  
  
Susan interrupts them. "We're just going to pop back to Seamus in Dublin. Obviously you don't have a result yet, but do you have any insight for us on how it's likely to go? Any big changes likely, or do you think the same candidates will be re-elected?"  
  
"It's hard to say. Seamus Brody - a different Seamus, obviously - is, as you probably don't know, one of our current representatives. Well, he's recently been suggesting that the IC ends its public information campaign about the dangers of apparating whilst drunk because it's apparently 'perfectly safe'. Faith in his ability to play an intelligent part in any debate is pretty low."  
  
"Kids, apparating while drunk is _not_ safe, as your apparation instructor will explain. But seriously, he genuinely thinks that?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Well, over here the main spotlight is on the basic issues of wizarding supremacy and the existence of the Statute for Secrecy - particularly in view of our first result. What's the view on those issues over in Ireland?"  
  
"They haven't really come up. I suppose over here we're all satisfied with the way the laws are at present. We don't have the same issues in terms of wizard supremacy; while there are differing opinions, we have nothing like the kind of extremism that resulted in the Death Eaters."  
  
"Do you want to carry on listening, Hugo?" Mum asks over the sound of the TV. "If so, I can leave it on for you."  
  
I shrug. "Not bothered really." The speaker on the TV cuts off mid-sentence. Mum takes a deep breath before explaining.  
  
"I can't believe they aren't worried by the idea of so many people with ideas like that. Since Rose was born I've been working to promote elfish rights because it would be impossible to build a viable argument based on 'all magical beings should be treated well', and because their position was worse than most. I thought that if I could convince wizards to accept that house-elves deserve rights, it wouldn't be too big a step to extend it to goblins and centaurs and werewolves, all the creatures who suffer in our society. And at the very least, we could move on from all of the 'wizards are better than muggles' and 'pure-bloods are better than everyone else'. But no, we're still stuck in that rut. It's less than twenty years since the end of the last war caused by those ideas, and now they're coming back. Seamus says that Irish wizard supremacists won't go to the same lengths, but I find that hard to believe."  
  
She lapses into silence for a moment. "That documentary that we watched a bit of earlier was about the pure-blood riots, which were based on the same principles. Right back through history, people are being killed because others think themselves better. That's muggle history as well as wizarding."  
  
"The Romans did it when they were making their Empire," I say.  
  
"That's right, and they weren't the only ones. It's just- this argument about wizarding and pure-blood supremacy has been going on since before Hogwarts was founded. And however many times we resist it, it just keeps coming back. We fought wars - people died to get rid of this nonsense. And it's still here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (Latin to English):
> 
> Etiam = yes
> 
> Magister = teacher
> 
> Simiam bucculentam es = you are a cheeky monkey


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shall we tell Hugo what we're doing today?" I start eating breakfast as they appear to have a silent conversation. They do that a lot. "Oh seriously, Ron, do you ever make decisions? Okay Hugo, we're going to see a harp teacher so you can have a go at playing one; you know you were interested at the concert? It's quite a long way because there aren't many harpists in the area and we wanted a good one." And because they had to find one willing to teach a blind boy, I suspect.

**Chapter Five - A Haunted House**

  
  
  
"Wake up, Hugo, or you'll be too late for breakfast!" I roll over, groaning.  
  
"In a minute!" I yell back, pulling my duvet further up around me. What's the time? Way too early to be getting up, anyway, especially for a weekend.  
  
"Hugo! I can't hear you moving!" I take a few more seconds to enjoy my warm bed. "I'll go and get a wet sponge, shall I?"  
  
"I'm coming, Mum!" I throw the covers back and swing my legs over the side of the bed. As always, Mum helped me pick out today's clothes last night and left them in a pile on the floor next to my bed. That's where I insist on having them, because it's easy to reach them in the morning. Pyjamas under my pillow as soon as I take them off so I can find them again when I go to bed.  
  
"What's the time?" I mumble once I'm downstairs.  
  
"Eight o'clock."  
  
"But it's the _weekend_!"  
  
 I can clearly hear the laughter in her voice. "We're going out, and it's a long drive."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Shall we tell him? RON!" She yells the last word at Dad, who I didn't even know was downstairs. He gets up later than me, except on work days.  
  
"Wha- Pardon?" Mum always tells us it's not polite to say 'what' when we don't hear something first time. Dad's not very good at remembering.  
  
"Shall we tell Hugo what we're doing today?" I start eating breakfast as they appear to have a silent conversation. They do that a lot. "Oh seriously, Ron, do you ever make decisions? Okay Hugo, we're going to see a harp teacher so you can have a go at playing one; you know you were interested at the concert? It's quite a long way because there aren't many harpists in the area and we wanted a good one." And because they had to find one willing to teach a blind boy, I suspect.  
  
I'm going to play a harp! Even if it's only one lesson, to find out what they're like. I push my bowl of cereal carefully towards the centre of the table before turning in my chair and holding out my arms. Mum comes over and I give her a huge hug. "Thanks, Mum."  
  
It is a long car ride, me in the back and Mum driving. Dad puts on the radio and we do our best to sing along to a load of muggle bands; it's a muggle radio, although Granddad got hold of it and made some alterations so we can listen to wizarding stations too. (Mum told him it was borderline illegal but decided it wasn't worth removing the spells so just fixed them to make it work better. She did say it was an impressive piece of magic, and Dad found the whole thing really funny for some reason.) Mum insists on muggle stations when we're driving along with the windows open, 'just in case'.  
  
"We're here," Dad says as the car stops. I undo my seat belt, open my door, and wait for one of them to come round to me. It's quiet, although I can hear the faint roar of traffic somewhere behind me.  
  
"Wait here, Hugo, and I'll go and make sure she's in." I hear Mum's footsteps crunching up a gravel path. I like gravel paths, so long as they're even; the stones make a funny noise as they scrape against each other. From the direction Mum just went in, a door opens, and another woman starts talking to Mum too quietly for me to hear the words. Then two sets of footsteps come back down the gravel path.  
  
"Would you like me to stay or not?" Mum asks.  
  
"Most parents stay for the first time, but it's up to you." I'm mentally building a picture of the woman. Old-ish, a slight Scottish accent, brisk and organised.  
  
"In that case if you don't mind I'll come and listen. Ron, I'm afraid it's not really on to have too many of us sitting there-"  
  
"It's fine, I'll go for a walk. An hour?"  
  
"About that. Come in then, Hugo." Mum comes and takes my hands to help me get out of the car and go into the house. I wonder what Dad's going to do for half an hour; he's not really the sort to go walking around for fun. Maybe sit in the car with the radio on or something. I'd feel guilty if I wasn't so excited.  
  
Mrs Roy (that's the teacher's name) sits me down on a stool and guides my hands to the strings. To start off with, I just get a feel for it, finding the pedals with my feet and trying them all. I only have to pluck the strings and they ring just like the one in the concert. I stretch to reach the ones right at the other end, the low notes, and run my hand right along to the high notes by my head. A rising scale sings out, the notes blending together into a still sweet-sounding jumble.  
  
Then Mrs Roy plays me a short tune, and I pick it out on the strings. No pedals for the moment, just guessing where the notes I need are in comparison to each other. Obviously I play a lot of wrong notes, but it was the same when I first started playing the piano. I don't have the raised black keys to help me check my place here, but I use them less and less on the piano anyway. On the piano, I know how big a jump I have to make to find the next note and roughly where it should be in relation to my body. It's not really different on the harp.  
  
I learn how to position my fingers to pluck out a broken and with two hands I can just about play an arpeggio. Okay, the notes aren't even and sometimes I play two at the same time or a couple in the wrong order or something, but it's a good start. We even use the pedals to change the key and to make interesting kinds of scales with some of the notes sharp and some flat depending on what I feel like.  
  
How can an hour go so quickly? All too soon Mum and I are saying goodbye to Mrs Roy and walking back down the crunchy gravel path. Dad's sitting in the car with the radio on, like I expected. "Had fun?" he asks as I do my seatbelt up (Mum's gone back up the path to say something else to Mrs Roy). "Don't worry, I have no objection to being in here - Quidditch on the radio!"  
  
Mum puts up with the Quidditch all the way home ("it's not too loud and if the muggles do hear a bit it won't be too clear - they'll think it's football or cricket or something"). It is a long way to go just for an hour playing a harp, but I reckon it's worth it. I'll probably never get another chance, but at least I've played it once and I know what it's like. Maybe, when I'm grown up, I'll be able to get myself a harp.  
  
Mum sits down at the dining table after lunch and warns me not to disturb any of the sheets of parchment she covers it with. Something to do with house-elf rights, probably. I help Dad wash up - or at least stand in the kitchen with him as the plates wash and dry themselves. We have to put them away ourselves, because Mum adamantly refuses to allow him to do that with magic. (I remember him doing it once when she was out. I wasn't in the kitchen at the time, fortunately, but I could hear smashing sounds and a few words that he never says in front of Mum. He refused to tell me what they meant, just said that I mustn't use them myself or I'd get him in trouble.)  
  
I ask him about the fighting that Mum said she could see on the TV yesterday. "Did you have to help stop it?"  
  
"The Law Enforcers dealt with it, mostly, although I did stop the candidates from getting hurt. Once they realised they weren't getting anywhere, the people all stopped fighting and went home. A couple of them got hexed, but nothing serious. Well, someone did have to go to St Mungo's because their teeth started growing really fast."  
  
I start to laugh, but stop quickly. "Were they alright?"  
  
"Only took the healers a couple of seconds to fix it, I expect. Still, not nice; someone did that to your Mum way back in- oh, fourth year? About then, I think." Dad's voice has closed off, an obvious hint of anger although he's trying to speak lightly. "The guy who did it, I got him back," he mutters.  
  
The next morning, we meet the Potters in Godric's Hollow. For once we don't take the car, Mum pointing out that it's ridiculous to travel so slowly all of the time. It's not like there there's a high risk of muggles seeing us arrive, she says, so we line up with me holding one of her arms and Dad holding the other.  
  
I've been side-along apparition a few times, and it doesn't get any more comfortable with experience. It's like I'm being squeezed through a narrow tube, crushed inside so I can't breathe. I like small spaces, where it's easy to get my bearings, but this is going too far. We pop out at the other end and I take a deep breath, relieved that my lungs aren't being crushed any more.  
  
"Ron? Ron! Are you okay?" asks Mum, dropping my hand. I can only stand here, no idea where 'here' is except that it's in or near place called Godric's Hollow, wondering whether Dad is okay or not.  
  
"Splinched- again." Dad laughs, then hisses through his teeth.  
  
"Hold still! Good thing I keep dittany-"  
  
"Undetectable Extension Charm? Surely you don't need that any more..."  
  
"Comes in handy; the picnic's in here. Now hold still! Don't you ever have to apparate for work?"  
  
"Sometimes. Tend to floo when I can, but haven't splinched for ages. Guess I got distracted, holding your arm like-"  
  
"It's the same place. The same shoulder. At least it's not as serious this time." I have no idea what they're going on about, but Dad doesn't seem to be too badly hurt.  
  
CRACK! I jerk my head towards the source of the sound, an instinctive and pointless reaction. "Hello," calls a familiar voice: Uncle Harry. "Ron? What's going on?"  
  
"Splinched again. Just like old times, isn't it? Complete with Hermione fixing me up. Ow!"  
  
"Hi Hugo," says Lily from right next to me.  
  
"Hi Lily! What's happened to Dad?"  
  
"If you mean why did he just say 'ow', your Mum poked him. Hard. What happened before that, I'm not sure, but apart from everyone crowding round him he seems to be okay."  
  
"Apparently he got 'splinched', but I'm guessing you don't know what that is any more than I do." A furry mass presses up against my leg and a cold wet nose presses against my palm. "Hello Snuffles."  
  
"Nope. If he was dying I don't think Aunt Hermione would poke him, though."  
  
"Good point." It takes a few minutes for the adults to remember we're here, as once they've made sure Dad's okay they start teasing him. Lily and I fuss over Snuffles while we wait. "What's splinching?" I ask Mum as soon as I get a chance.  
  
"When you apparate, if you don't focus enough-"  
  
"Destination, Determination- Degradation?"  
  
"Deliberation, Ron! Honestly. As I was saying, Hugo, splinching is where you leave a part of yourself behind through not concentrating hard enough. Like hair, a nail, even a limb if you really lose concentration." I shudder. "Your Dad failed his test first time because he left half his eyebrow behind!" I try to imagine what it would feel like having only one and a half eyebrows.  
  
"Destination, Determination, Deliberation!" Dad and Aunt Ginny are singing behind us. "Destination, Determination, Deliberation!"  
  
"Calm down, we'll be in the village in a minute and while there might be a large wizard population there are plenty of muggles too," Mum scolds them. They repeat the line once more before stopping.  
  
"Spoilsport," mutters Ginny loudly, but I can hear the smile in her voice that says she's not really annoyed. Mum's right, of course; while they're not exactly _wizard_ words, they're not something normal people go around singing. Normal _wizards_ don't go around singing them. Dad and Aunt Ginny aren't exactly normal wizards; I don't think any of the Weasley family are, except maybe me and Rose. Okay, I'm hardly normal, but it's a different kind of weird.  
  
Snuffles races ahead, feet scampering among the dead leaves that have already begun to coat the ground. The moment we've caught up he's off again. Before we've walked very far, Uncle Harry whistles and the chain jingles as he clips it onto Snuffles' collar. Mum holds a gate open for us and we come out onto a hard road which slopes down slightly at the edges.  
  
"Which way, can you remember?" asks Aunt Ginny.  
  
"Towards the church - you see the steeple?" I half listen to Lily describing the village and church as she tows me along but the words don't really sink in. I can tell a lot about the area for myself: the air smells clean, none of the city sourness. There's no traffic, no other people around. An autumn breeze whispers through the trees to the left of the road, tickling at my hair. Apart from the trees and the others talking, it's quiet. Kind of nice, but also spooky.  
  
A bell clangs out from the sky somewhere in front, eleven times (I always count things like this; I guess it's just a habit). It must be big to make such a huge sound - we have little ones at school and they're nothing like as loud. "That's the church bells, Hugo," Mum explains from behind me. "They ring every hour, to tell people the time. Eleven bongs means eleven o'clock."  
  
"That's a sensible idea. They should do that everywhere." It would save me from having to ask whenever I want to know the time. It's probably possible to get magic talking watches, but I couldn't wear it to school and I don't necessarily want special things like that. I'd rather be able to manage by myself without special gadgets. Okay, I like the Brailler, but pretty much everyone uses one to write Braille whether they can see or not.  
  
"Most churches ring the bells every hour, but there are too many houses between home and the nearest one so you can't really hear it." Well that's stupid. What's the point in ringing them if people can't hear them? Mum carries on anyway. "The house is just along here..."  
  
"I'll wait here with Hugo and Lily while you show Ginny," Uncle Harry suggests. "The muggles might get  bit suspicious if all of us start examining a house that they can't see."  
  
"It'll be less obvious if we all just disappear - they'll doubt whether we were actually there, or think we must moved on out of sight. Come on, Harry," Mum coaxes.  
  
"I- you don't understand. I can't-"  
  
"Yes you can. Voldemort wanted to destroy you; you're alive, but he's still ruining your life. He's dead, Harry. You killed him-"  
  
"His own spell backfired because of a plan Dumbledore made. It was Dumbledore who was responsible for me winning; I was just the puppet."  
  
"Stop it, Harry! None of us could have done it, we couldn't have walked to our deaths like that then come back and carried on fighting. You kept on fighting, even when it all seemed impossible. Don't give up now, Harry - one last fight."  
  
"I don't want to fight! I want to forget it all- move on-"  
  
"We're never going to forget, Harry, although we'd all like to. Wouldn't you like to live here, rather than in the middle of the city? Snuffles would love it, Lily would love it, and you know Ginny misses the countryside."  
  
"I like the city. Out here it's- too quiet."  
  
"How do you know you couldn't get used to it? Now get a move on, Harry, or all the muggles will be watching us out of their windows and it'll be pretty hard for them to convince themselves that we don't really exist."  
  
"Muggles don't see what's right under their noses. Fine, we can look. I'm not going inside." Mum sighs loudly but doesn't argue further. We're moving again, passing one by one through a gate.  
  
"No wards?" ask Aunt Ginny.  
  
"Do you think they'd have survived Voldemort breaking in?" Mum points out.  
  
"I guess." Someone stops suddenly in front of me and I bump into them. Why can't people remember to warn me? Just because Lily's holding my hand doesn't mean I can deal with sudden stops or changes in direction. "Harry! They've written messages for you, all over the sign." She reads some out. "Thank you, Harry Potter. I hope you get a chance to enjoy yourself now. Congratulations on your wedding - you deserve to be happy..."  
  
"Come _on_ ," Uncle Harry interrupts. I scuff my foot on the ground, praying they won't argue. We're supposed to have a picnic later, and I want it to be fun. It won't be if Uncle Harry's sulking and Aunt Ginny's miserable. Judging by the state of things at the moment, it'll be a miracle if they're not.  
  
"Wait there, you two," Mum calls from somewhere in front. "Wand ready if you're going closer, Ginny; it doesn't look safe."  
  
"I can tell that much, Hermione. Let's walk right the way around the outside; I guess we'd better call the experts in before we go inside." Their voices fade as they wander off round what I guess is this house they've been talking about. Lily and I are only just inside the gate, just out of sight of the muggles apparently.  
  
Dad breaks the silence; it appears he stayed with Harry and us instead of going with Mum. "Crikey Harry, my little sister's being ambitious if she thinks she can make this place habitable."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's where..?"  
  
"Obviously."  
  
They stand there in silence for a bit. I sneak my foot out to nudge Lily's, she nudges me back, then suddenly we're having a foot duel, both hopping around on one leg and trying to poke the each other with our raised foot.  
  
"Lily!" Uncle Harry snaps, and we stop. Lily drops my hand and stomps off in the direction of the gate (she can't go far, as we're barely through it anyway) so I'm stuck standing on my own in a strange place. I'm not looking forward to the picnic any more.  
  
"Alright, Hugo?" Dad stands next to me and puts his arm round my shoulders. Obviously it's not alright, everyone fighting around me, but at least I'm not standing alone on what for all I know could be a spit of land surrounded by piranha-infested water. Okay, not water because I'd be able to hear it, but pits full of spikes or just holes in the ground...  
  
Yes, I have a vivid imagination. I learnt pretty quickly to keep my more morbid theories quiet in front of Mum - she gets a bit distressed by them. I can't see a problem really; just because I talk about tanks full of piranhas and spike pits doesn't mean I think that they're really there, it's just they _could_ be. At school sometimes we pretend that under the obstacle course is a crocodile swamp so if you fall off you get eaten. We even start to wonder whether it might be true, at least until we do fall off.  
  
"...you'll have to remove the whole of the first floor; there are traces of dark magic in the brickwork." Mum's coming back, still talking to Aunt Ginny. "The best path will depend on the potential for decontamination."  
  
"It might be best just to start again," says Aunt Ginny. "It's not just the top floor; the whole thing's leaning."  
  
"It's probably possible to fix that with magic, or at least to stabilise it. Don't you think it has character? The Burrow's hardly the most structurally sound construction; isn't that held up mostly by magic?"  
  
"I suppose. The chimney's fine, so that's a start. It'll be interesting when we get the ivy off to see what it's like underneath."  
  
"Oak lasts for centuries, so it's mostly the brickwork. And a new roof."  
  
"The windows - take the lot out and replace them with single panes? It'd be easier to see out of and let in more light; the builders wouldn't have done it like this but they couldn't make large enough sheets of glass at the time."  
  
"Urgh, it would detract so much. The diamond lattice is so classic, really fits the house. And it means that less birds fly into it by accident."  
  
"I suppose it might not show so much if they haven't been cleaned," Aunt Ginny concedes.  
  
Lily's small hand slips back into mine; she's gotten bored of sulking. "It doesn't have a _roof_."  
  
I screw up my face. "What's the point in a house without a roof?"  
  
"It used to have one, it just doesn't now; there are big roof-shaped bits at the ends, just nothing between them. The upstairs sticks out further than the downstairs; the Tudors had houses like that. We learnt about them at school. But it's all sagging; one end of the upstairs is lower than the other. It's a black and white house, except the white bits aren't very white. Some of them are just bricks, and some of them aren't there at all. It's all covered in ivy."  
  
"The white bits of newer black and white houses are made of bricks," Mum explains, bushes rustling as she pushes her way back towards us. "They're just covered in plaster. Now we're not doing anything else here until we've had the experts in to look at it; it's stood for this long so it can stay up for a bit longer, but we're not going to start poking around trying to make it collapse. Picnic!"  
  
"About time too!"  
  
"Ron! Will you ever grow up?"  
  
"I hope not, because then I'd have to think about doing it myself," jokes Aunt Ginny as she tugs at Lily's plait and Lily tries to fend her off. "Lead on, Harry. Don't forget, muggles will be able to see us once we're out."


	6. A Birthday Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Wednesday I wake up, roll over, pull my duvet closer around me in the hope that I can get back to sleep- and remember that it's my birthday! So, try to get a few more minutes' sleep or rush downstairs?

**Chapter Six - A Birthday Present**  
  
   
  
We eat the picnic sitting on two wooden benches in what appears to be a small park or something, pretending to be a normal muggle family (or two) on a day out. Pigeons coo throatily from their high-up perches, and Snuffles actually barks at them a couple of times (he knows that barking isn't really allowed). Finished eating, I suck my fingers one by one to get the last traces of sticky jam. Mum sees and wipes them firmly with a paper towel.  
  
Dad's last to finish, as usual. Eventually, after going through all the clapping games I know with Lily, the grown-ups finally get up. We go to the graveyard next, and I trail my fingers lightly over the tops of the stones. They're all different, some rough and worn and some plastic-smooth. Except colder than plastic. Lily drags me over to a stone angel, and when I stretch up I can feel the feathers of the wings. Cold and hard, not really like feathers at all.  
  
"Lily, Hugo!" Aunt Ginny calls, and I'm towed in a zigzag across thick grass. My hand catches on a tombstone, grazing my knuckle, but I ignore the gentle throb. It'll fade quickly enough.  
  
"Your grandparents are buried here, Lily," says Aunt Ginny when we're close enough. "The Lily you're named after."  
  
"Uh-huh." We stand there awkwardly, not sure what we're supposed to say or do. I'm guessing there's another slab of stone in front of us, one with Lily's grandparents' names carved on it. We've been to see a lot of graves: Uncle Fred's, Teddy's parents'... loads. The worst was Mum's parents' graves; Mum goes there a lot, but every time she cries. Something about trying to protect them and it didn't work.  
  
Uncle Harry's silent, and the only reason I know he's still here is that he wouldn't have gone anywhere else. At least not anywhere far away; he might be somewhere else in the graveyard. Snuffles jingles his chain as he sniffs around, studying my shoes and the gravestones and whatever else he finds interesting.  
  
It's a short walk into the woods then we say goodbye and apparate home (Dad doesn't splinch himself this time). It's not before time; Uncle Harry hardly said a word all afternoon and we didn't really have anything to do so we just spent ages wandering around the graveyard and village. Snuffles seemed to enjoy himself, but I'm pretty sure he was the only one.  
  
I spend the rest of the day in my room, writing. I have a load of paper clips which I acquired from school, so when I've finished my story I clip it together and add it to my desk drawer. There are probably stories in there which I wrote three years ago and haven't read since. No-one reads the stories in my drawer; I can't imagine a normal person bothering to get right through even the shortest of them.  
  
It's only when I've finished my story that I remember I'm supposed to write about what I did at the weekend for school tomorrow. The main thing was going to Godric's Hollow and the picnic; I suppose I could write about the picnic, but there's not much to say other than that it was disappointing and everyone was in a bad mood. Then I'd have to explain why everyone was in a bad mood, and going to see a falling-down house isn't exactly normal. I need something where I won't accidently mention magic...  
  
The harp lesson! It was with a muggle teacher, and we travelled the muggle way. I falter several times, reluctant to put it on paper; things never seem as good in words as in real life. And it feels kind of private, something special that no-one else could ever understand. I write about it anyway, and it's certainly not my best piece but at least I have something to hand in.  
  
It's a normal week, with normal lessons and piano lessons and playing in the common room because it's raining outside. The weekend's normal too, sitting in my room as the rain patters against the window. I write my longest story yet, taking a break every now and then to practise the piano, and when it's done I fix the pages together with a paperclip and add them to my desk drawer. If Rose was here, we'd sit downstairs with the TV on, but I can't be bothered to do it on my own. Mum's at the ministry doing something to do with house-elves, and Dad's writing up reports in the kitchen or something. On Sunday afternoon he has the TV on all afternoon, watching the Quidditch, but I get bored and leave him too it. It's just people passing the quaffle to other people and trying to score, sometimes succeeding and sometimes being blocked by the keeper. Maybe it's fun to watch. The commentary is funny but not funny enough to listen to for three hours.  
  
On Wednesday I wake up, roll over, pull my duvet closer around me in the hope that I can get back to sleep- and remember that it's my birthday! So, try to get a few more minutes' sleep or rush downstairs?  
  
"Happy birthday, Hugo!" calls Mum when I enter the living room. Dad echoes her sleepily. Usually Rose presses things into my hand for me to unwrap. "Start big, or start small?" Mum asks unnecessarily. We always start with the small predictable presents and work up, and I'm not going to suddenly change the system. Dad presses a small package into my hands: chocolate, from Rose. We nearly always get each other chocolate.  
  
There are more gifts from a lot of the Aunts and Uncles, plus home-made fudge and a knitted scarf from granny. "Your present from us is a big one, so you're only getting the one this year," says Mum, leading me across the room to a huge paper-wrapped object. I can tell what it is before I've even started ripping off the paper.  
  
"A harp! Thank you- thank you so much!" I run my fingers across the strings, making them ring, and feel the carving around the frame. I'd tried not to hope for something I couldn't have- and now I had it!  
  
"We've got you lessons too, every Saturday morning with Mrs Roy. Don't expect much for Christmas!"  
  
"Or your birthday next year," Dad adds, "or the one after!"  
  
"It's- actually mine?" I pluck a chord.  
  
"You know, Hermione, I think he likes it," says Dad.  
  
"You know what, Ron? You might just be right."  
  
"Really? Yes! Get in there!"  
  
"Oh grow up, Ronald!" Dad's dancing round the room now, singing.  
  
"Hermione says I'm ri-ight! Hermione says I'm ri-ight!"  
  
"I said you _might_ be right."  
  
He stops singing for long enough to answer. "Good enough for me!"  
  
"I'm going to get breakfast ready. Why don't you try it out properly, Hugo? If your father will shut up for long enough!" Dad does stop singing, flumping down on the sofa as I drag the piano stool over to sit on. I pick out arpeggios and chords, then try a couple of nursery rhymes. I play more wrong notes than right, but it still sounds nice. Not like the piano, where wrong notes are just, well, wrong.  
  
Everyone sings Happy Birthday to me first thing in the morning, before a drama lesson. We're working on our play for the class assembly, and unlike for the juniors' and the infants' nativity plays and the year six leavers' play it's not for the parents so we don't have to worry how it looks.  
  
It's about Romulus and Remus, and we wrote it ourselves; this is only the second time of actually practising it, as we spent the first couple of weeks doing the script then a lesson deciding who would play which part. I'm Mars, the Roman god of war and the father of Romulus and Remus. I have a big metal sheet that sounds a bit like thunder when I hit it, so I'm happy with the part.  
  
We start off at the beginning, when my 'wife' Rhea (we all agreed Rhiannon should play her because the name's nearly the same and we actually shorten it to Rhea all the time) and I are naming our 'children'. Aidan and Mike spend far too much time practising how to cry like babies, as they're going to be the Romulus and Remus.  
  
Emma and Patrick pretend to be the other gods, who are jealous about our 'children'; Patrick doesn't have a specific character, but he's doing most of the sound effects and he's really good at that. Plus he can do lots of different voices so it sounds like there are a lot of different gods talking.  
  
It's Aidan and Mike who have the most to do, being in every scene (although the first few they just have to pretend to be babies). Mars is only in the first scene, but I do have some narration to do later on. And we can all laugh at Kelly's wolf voice; we had an argument over whether the wolf should be able to talk and decided that if it couldn't talk we'd have to do all the wolf stuff with growling and narration. Kelly decided it by pointing out that it must be a magic wolf; I didn't laugh with the others, because to me 'magic wolf' isn't just something funny, but I don't think anyone noticed.  
  
There was never any question that Kelly would be the wolf. She's been the (talking) donkeys in at least three nativity plays (a sheep or a cow in the others), the Sphinx in our class play when we were doing the Ancient Egyptians (Mum says Sphinxes are actually real but that muggles don't know), and all kinds of talking animals in our other plays. I think in the nativity play when we were in year two they tried to get her to be the angel Gabriel. She cried and refused to say the words, so they let her be a camel and I was Gabriel. It did make more sense that way because Gabriel's a male angel.  
  
By the end of the lesson, Miss Scott is thoroughly fed up. We did _try_ to pay attention, but when you're sitting there for ages while she's telling Aidan and Mike not to overact in their argument and trying unsuccessfully to get Mike to tone down his dramatic death scene (Well, what do you expect? We hardly ever get to do death scenes and they're always the most fun.) then you can't help but talk otherwise you'd die of boredom. Miss Scott hardly ever shouts, but she's made an exception this lesson. Mr Benedict just seems amused by the whole thing and offers to take us all for a run round the field to work off our excess energy.  
  
We line up holding hands and off we go, not too fast so we trip over but not slowly enough that we can get away with walking. We mastered running like this years ago, so the challenge now is how to trip other people up without falling over yourself, and without them realising that it was deliberate. I don't think anyone in our class has managed both at the same time yet.  
  
We get back in even higher spirits than before, so Mr Benedict has us jump up and down and jog on the spot until we're all out of breath before letting us back inside. Hot and sweaty, we sit down in the classroom and are immediately subjected a spelling test.  
  
Miss Scott makes us swap tests and mark each others', reading out the correct spellings. We all get the same ones wrong: 'spaghetti', because apparently it has an 'h' in it (which is stupid); 'macaroni' and 'ravioli' because, let's face it, who can spell them anyway? It's not like they're _important_ words. Well, Kelly gets them all right, like she always does, but she's the only one to manage that. Oh, and I suppose Terry does get "macaroni" right somehow.  
  
I go to my Piano lesson after lunch trying to calm down a bit; it's been a morning of high spirits. Emma's figured out how to make loud popping noises with her tongue in her cheek. She did it every time the classroom went quiet, and the moment we heard the noise we all convulsed with laughter again. Miss Scott figured out it was her in the end and kept her in at lunchtime, but that won't stop her from doing it again the moment she gets the opportunity.  
  
"Happy birthday, Hugo! Having a good day?" With some adults, this would be the cue for a long description of everything I'd done that morning, but from Mr Greg it's just a courtesy before we get on to the actual lesson.  
  
"Great, thanks. I got a harp!"  
  
"A harp? You're not bored of the piano, are you?"  
  
"No! But I heard it at that concert you suggested I go to and told Mum I really liked it. You know I told you I had that lesson a couple of weeks ago?"  
  
"Oh yes- you might have said something about it-" I know I did tell him about it, but it was obvious at the time that he wasn't really paying attention. He doesn't, when he's got his mind on the piano and the lesson. I'm surprised he actually remembered that it's my birthday today- except didn't Mum pin a badge on my jumper this morning? That would explain it.  
  
"Yes, well Mum saw that I enjoyed that lesson so she and Dad got me a harp and lessons. Obviously I'm still going to play the piano, but I'm going to play the harp too."  
  
"You must have been enthusiastic at that lesson; harps are quite an investment-"  
  
"Mum says it's my only present from them this year, and not to expect much for the next few Christmases and birthdays."  
  
"Well, can you show as much enthusiasm for this piano now as you do for that harp of yours? It's a good idea for you to have more than one instrument- although the harp isn't one I'd have expected you to take up."  
  
"It sounds so pretty, even when the notes are wrong."  
  
"And you're going to make your scales sound pretty for me now, _without_ getting any notes wrong!"  
  
Rose used to have big birthday parties with four or five friends, during which I hid in the kitchen or my room. I've never had a party like that, but as usual Aidan comes round for tea today. Mum says I can have more people, but I'd rather have just Aidan. There are eight in our class, and when we work in pairs we always split up in the same way: me with Aidan and Emma with Terry (I suppose they balance each other out: Emma talks all the time, Terry hardly ever). Kelly and Rhiannon  make up the 'responsible' pair, as Mr Benedict's described them on many occasions, and Mike works with Patrick.  
  
Dad picks us up in the car; either he or Mum has removed all of the usual spells, like the undetectable extension charms on the boot and foot spaces and the extra cushioning charms on the seats. Once he's helped us into the house, he says goodbye. "I'm afraid I've been called in to work; they've got a minor emergency. I'll be back as soon as I can."  
  
"What do you do, Mr Weasley?"  
  
"I'm a- please-man."  
  
" _Police_ man!" Mum corrects, before realising that it sounds a bit strange to be making the correction. "Honestly, Ron, talk properly."  
  
"Dad calls them please-men to wind Mum up," I tell Aidan, trying to cover up my parents' slips, and fortunately he accepts the explanation. "He's in a special police unit, a really important one, so he gets called in to deal with things the ordinary police can't. He's a kind of police detective." At school everyone boasts about their parents, so I just take pleasure in how impressed Aidan is. And I'm not sure normal policemen get called in to deal with emergencies.  
  
"Bye Hugo, bye... Aidan." He manages to remember Aidan's name, which shouldn't be impressive because they've just come the whole way home in the car together and it's hardly the first time Aidan's come to visit but is actually an achievement for him because he's Dad. "Bye, love; see you later." The door opens and closes, and the car engine starts up; Dad's thought to make it seem like he drives to work. He'll probably park a few streets away, find somewhere muggle-free, and apparate from there.  
  
"So this is Benji?" Mum asks when Dad's gone."Hugo mentioned him."  
  
"You don't mind him coming inside, do you, Mrs Weasley?"  
  
"Of course not! I'm tgetting tea ready at the moment, so can you two amuse yourselves for half an hour?"  
  
"Yeah, come on Aidan." I lead Aidan the way to the living room, Benji bringing Aidan. I remember getting the harp this morning, but I can't help but doubt myself. Maybe I misremembered. Maybe Mum and Dad changed their minds and took it back...  
  
I find the strings and make them ring out. It's right where I left it, as beautiful as I remembered. "Aidan! This is my birthday present." I stretch out an arm, and a hand touches my chest. I take it eagerly, and guide his fingers to touch the strings. It's mine, but I want him to be able to admire it. He plucks a few notes, and I swallow my envy. It's mine, and I'll be able to play it whenever I want. He's only finding out what it's like, out of curiosity. I'd do the same.  
  
"It sounds kind of like a piano, only cleaner," Aidan says  
  
"And nicer. It rings more, doesn't it?" I find the piano stool, which no-one's moved since this morning, and sit down to play a few chords. "Do you want to do anything?"  
  
"Do you know how to play any songs on that thing?"Rose and her friends always played pass-the-parcel and musical statues and party games like that at her parties, but you can't do that with two. And when she just had one friend round, they tended to disappear up to her room and you'd hear them giggling from behind the closed door. They wouldn't sit in the living room singing, but maybe sometimes it's better not to be normal.  
  
I do my best to pick out songs, and though I make a complete hash of it we do our best to sing along. If it's perfect all the time, where's the fun? I figure out 'Old MacDonald' so we take turns choosing animals for the verses, none of the usual ones but pigeons and dinosaurs (we have different roars for different kinds of dinosaur, and we go through T-Rex and Brontosaurus and Pterodactyl and several others) and dolphins (apparently they talk by clicking). We stop in the end because we can't agree on what noise llamas make. They're like sheep, aren't they? Neither of us have been anywhere near a llama, so the argument would have gone on for a long time if Mum hadn't interrupted.  
  
"That's an interesting farm. Wouldn't the T-Rex eat the llama?"  
  
"And all the other animals, and the farmer," I add. "Except maybe the pigeons, because they fly away."  
  
"The pterodactyl eats them before the T-Rex eats it," Aidan says decisively. "The T-Rex offers to be friends with the pterodactyl, but when it lands the T-Rex eats it."  
  
"And then a meteor comes along and kills the T-Rex." I run my fingers down the harp strings to indicate the meteor crashing towards the earth, and when I get to the bottom we have a competition for who can make the best explosion noise. Aidan wins, as he always does.  
  
"Tea's getting cold, so whenever you're ready..." Aidan and I jump up immediately.  
  
It's burgers and chips, good home-made ones not like the greasy ones you can buy in fast food places, and after a few minutes we're sitting there licking the sticky meaty juice off out fingers and working on our third portions of chips as we talk. Finger food is our favourite because not only is it nice but it's also easy to eat, better than fumbling around with knives and forks.  
  
"I've got food for Benji in my bag," Aidan realises suddenly when we've gotten through all the chips Mum cooked.  
  
"Wash your hands and get it for him, then," Mum tells him, and he does that while she works on pudding. There's a rattle of dry dog biscuits, followed by a loud crunching sound as Aidan sits back down. "Hugo! You haven't washed your hands yet, and don't pretend they aren't sticky... Ice cream, Aidan?"  
  
"Yes please, Mrs Weasley!"


	7. Common Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...House-elves may enjoy their work, but I don't think any species enjoys being forced to shut their ears in oven doors and iron their fingers. How would you like to have to beat yourselves over the head with whatever came to hand if you forgot to do something? I am not calling for an end to house-elf employment, just for some basic human decency with regards to their treatment."

**Chapter Seven - Common Knowledge**  
   
  
  
"...House-elves may enjoy their work, but I don't think any species enjoys being forced to shut their ears in oven doors and iron their fingers. How would you like to have to beat yourselves over the head with whatever came to hand if you forgot to do something? I am not calling for an end to house-elf employment, just for some basic human decency with regards to their treatment."  
  
Dad got called into work urgently this morning, so I had to come out with Mum. I'm not sure who she's talking to, but there are a lot of them and I'm pretty sure they're not really listening; I can hear them fidgeting like my class does when we're bored. The only reason I'm listening at all is because I'm not going to be like all of those other rude people, ignoring Mum. And I've got nothing else to do.  
  
"That was a waste of a morning," Mum says to me quietly when the meeting's over and she rejoins me. "Most of them can't see past their own noses; you'd think we'd have moved beyond that after all these years."  
  
"I can't see as far as my nose," I point out, just for the sake of it.  
  
"Bad choice of metaphor, sorry Hugo. I mean-"  
  
"S'okay, I know what you mean really." I can guess, anyway. It means most of the people weren't listening, which I knew already. "Why do you care so much about house-elves?"  
  
"Why? I guess- I've always thought it was unfair how they were treated. Dobby was the first one I knew and he had a horrible time with the Malfoys. Then I found out there were hundreds of them worldwide, all abused like that, slaves in every sense of the word. I saw how happy Dobby was when Ha- Uncle Harry- freed him, and I thought that all house-elves could be like that. It's horrible, how they're so devoted to their work that they even shunned Dobby for daring to be himself, asking for decent working conditions and to be paid. And the way that freedom was used as a threat, and they were actually afraid of it."  
  
"But why are you the only one who cares about it?" I ask. "All those people who own house-elves, surely some of them would realise that it's cruel to treat them that way."  
  
"I suppose they think it's normal. They're used to the house-elves being there; and the house-elves never complain, just do as they're ordered. The one thing that defines a house-elf? Obedience. If their master tells them to do something, they will do it, even if it will result in their death."  
  
"But why do you care and no-one else?" Mum's arguments seem to make it obvious, but if they do then why is no-one listening to her? Why does she have to go to all these meetings, when she should have been able to convince them ages ago.  
  
"I grew up away from all of that, in a society where servants are paid wages and have holidays and aren't abused for disobeying." She stops and swallows audibly. "And then, during the war, under the new regime- I was less than a house-elf. Muggleborns were arrested and killed just because they didn't have magical parents. Like house-elves are enslaved because they're house-elves. And I thought then, what is the difference between doing it to our own species and doing it to them? They speak the same language. They've never harmed wizards, just like muggle-borns never harmed Death Eaters, but they're abused all the same. I cared about house-elf welfare before, but it wasn't until I saw muggle-borns being sent to Azkaban that I realised how horrible it really was."  
  
"Have you told them? Have you told the people you're trying to convince? Maybe you need to tell them that what they're doing is like what the Death Eaters and Voldemort did to muggle-borns. Then they wouldn't be able to ignore you."  
  
"You underestimate their ability to ignore things that don't suit them."  
  
"Then why do you bother talking to them at all?"  
  
"In the hope that I might be able to convince just one of them, that they somehow soak up my words despite the fact that they aren't really listening, to get publicity so that the general public join the cause and the society gets too much support to be ignored... Because it's easy to give up, Hugo, to say that it's not worth bothering because you'll never get anywhere. You have to try, even if it seems pointless, because maybe it will work after all."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." I suppose it's a good philosophy, and it applies to this. But not for everything. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how hard you work. Sometimes, you can try everything and it still doesn't work. And sometimes it's not worth bothering to try.  
  
"Do you want to do anything before we go home?" Mum asks, breaking my train of thought.  
  
"Can I have an ice-cream?" I smile sweetly, standing up and holding out a hand to her. "Please!"  
  
"You probably _can_..."  
  
" _May_ I have an ice-cream, please, Mum?" It doesn't really bother her which I use, but she wouldn't be picky if she wasn't going to get me one. What flavour should I get? I had honeycomb once, and it was good, but I like raspberry ripple too; the London ice-cream places all have lots of flavours. Mint choc chip, maybe. Mum might even let me have more than one scoop, if I ask really nicely!  
  
"How about a trip to Diagon Alley?" I turn eagerly to face towards her.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"No, I just said it to wind you up!" She replies sarcastically. "Of course, really."  
  
We apparate side-along, coming out in a cold quiet courtyard. Somewhere on my left, from inside a building, comes the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses and plates. The odd burst of laughter cuts across everything. There's a stale smell of alcohol; wizard and muggle pubs smell pretty much the same. Sour and thick. Mum turns me round to face away from the sound and a grinding noise indicates the moving bricks; Lily was with me the first time we came and described everything. The bricks move and form an archway, letting people through to the street itself.  
  
I lightly trace my fingers around part of the archway as we pass through, out into Diagon Alley proper. The bricks are worn at the corners, the cement joining them dry and abrasive but still strong. Despite all the magic here, no-one's bothered to put anti-weathering charms on the brickwork. Or maybe the charms are wearing off; the wall must have been here for a long time.  
  
"Mum? How long has the wall been here?" Mum knows all kinds of things; she probably knows this too.  
  
"I'm not sure about the wall- Ollivander's was founded more than two thousand years ago, but it might have moved here from somewhere else. The current Gringott's building - or at least the marble building on the surface - is only a few centuries old; wizarding design trends tend to follow muggle ones to a certain extent, although white marble was popular for wizarding buildings before muggles could afford to transport it to Britain in such quantities. Anyway, Gringott's is generally considered the first building in Diagon Alley, as the other shops sprang up around it to take advantage of the high footfall. Most of them have been replaced, many times; chances are Ollivander's was not the first shop here but merely the one which has survived the test of time."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." I like it when Mum talks about things she finds interesting. She enjoys it, and she understands so much. She'll probably figure out an answer to my question in the end, but it doesn't matter if she can't. I asked the question mostly so we had something to talk about.  
  
"The majority of the buildings, including the Leaky Cauldron, were built around sixteen sixty-six; several years ago, when I was still working for the DMLE, we had a complicated case relating to land ownership and development regulations for the area. I gleaned a lot of the history of the area from all of the documents I had to trawl through! The wall probably wasn't all that much later, perhaps around seventeen hundred - it's only a wall, and all I know was that it was produced before the ministry began keeping thorough written records. So it's been there for more than fifty years!"  
  
It might not have anti-weathering spells at all, then. Of course it doesn't matter whether it does or not, I was just randomly curious.  
  
"Here we are." Mum pushes a door open and a bell jingles overhead. Inside is quiet, probably because not many people want ice cream when it's cold outside. Obviously, I'm not bothered about that; ice cream is ice cream, and while it's especially welcome in summer it's equally nice all year round.  
  
"Welcome to Engall's Ice Cream Parlour," a man says, and I picture him from his voice. Young, pretty tall - his voice came from a long way up - and while he says the words formally he enjoys his job. "What would you like today, young sir?"  
  
"Um..." I turn my face up towards Mum.  
  
"Go on," she tells me reassuringly. "Name a flavour and I'll tell you whether they have it."  
  
"Mint choc chip? Please?" Pretty much every ice cream seller has that one.  
  
The shop man chuckles. "Sure? Most of our younger customers go for the adventurous ones, not the basic muggle flavours, but you can have whatever you want."  
  
I'm not sure about adventurous - I don't like trying things when I don't know what to expect - but I've had wizard sweets and they're better than muggle ones so the same is probably true for wizard ice cream. "Which do you think is best?" I ask the shop man. It'll save having to ask Mum to read out the entire list and from having to guess what they're like by the descriptions. There's nothing as bad as picking something that sounds nice and finding out that it's rubbish, then pretending I like it so as not to sound ungrateful.  
  
"My personal favourite? Engall's every-flavour ice-cream, as I like to call it. It's a bit like every-flavour beans, but with only the nice flavours. Would you like to try that one?"  
  
"Yes, please." It sounds alright, and interesting. I hate every-flavour beans because we used to sit in the living room as a family sometimes and pass round a box. Everyone else would guess what flavour they thought it was by what it looked like, while I wouldn't have any idea until I put it in my mouth. I only joined in twice, then refused to eat them again. If it was just nice flavours, it would have been fun, but I kept on getting horrible ones.  
  
A cone is pressed into my hand, and I immediately bring it to my mouth for a first taste. Mum nudges me to say thank you. I taste it tentatively. Lemon flavour, and not too sweet or too sharp but just right.  
  
It turns out that the "every-flavour" bit means it tastes different with every lick. I get chocolate, mint, blackcurrant, and also one that fizzes on my tongue and one with little lumps of candy that swell up and pop in my mouth. I have no idea how it works- whether it's little bits of all these different flavours mixed up to make the ice cream; but then wouldn't I get mixtures of flavours most times? All I know is it's nicer and much more fun than muggle ice cream.  
  
"It used to be Florien Fortescue's ice-cream parlour; I remember sitting there with Harry and Ron when we were shopping for our school things. It was more old-fashioned than this, both in the set-up and in the flavours. Old Florien ran it on his own; he knew all about the middle-ages, and we had some fascinating conversations with him."  
  
"What happened to him?"  
  
"The Death Eaters came to visit." I shiver slightly, and not because of the autumn weather or the ice-cream. Neither of my parents talk about the war much, and nor do the aunts and uncles, so I only know what Mum told me a few weeks ago. It's the voice in which Mum says it that makes me shiver. "There are surprisingly few changes; most of the old shopkeepers came back when it was safe. So many of the same shops, just with fresh paint and new signs."  
  
When I've eaten right down to the bottom of the cone (which has a chocolate-filled tip - the best sort), we wander off along the street to Uncle George's shop. Last time I went was with Rose, when we were buying her Hogwarts things, and it was packed with people. We go before most Christmases too, and to buy Christmas presents for the cousins. Sometimes it's really busy, so I can hardly move without crashing into someone. Sometimes it's quiet apart from the buzzing and whirring and clicking of all the hundreds of joke products. With just a couple of families exclaiming over things and jabbering away in corners of the shop. This is one of the quieter weekends.  
  
The shop assistant greets us as we go in - a young woman. "Is Mr Weasley here?" Mum asks her as we pass.  
  
"Not today, madam. Do you have a message for him?"  
  
"Oh, no, I just wondered. I know him from school."  
  
"He's up at our Hogsmeade branch today, I'm afraid."  
  
"Alright. Thank you." Mum moves on decisively. "We'll just wander round the shop, then." She says it very firmly, and I wonder what the shop assistant's doing to make her act like this. Staring, probably.  
  
We wander through the skiving snackboxes section, Mum describing all the most interesting products.  "Canary creams! I remember one being used on Neville back at Hogwarts - he ate it completely unsuspecting and turned into a huge yellow canary. I'm surprised they were never prosecuted. Everything here has been rigorously tested and meets ministry health and safety regulations, but certainly those first products were developed and tested in very unorthodox manners."  
  
"Can we get some and trick Dad into thinking they're normal biscuits?" I interrupt. I try to imagine what it would feel like to turn into a giant bird. "I wonder how many times it would work before he got suspicious. He probably wouldn't expect us to do it more than once!"  
  
"Hugo! You take after your father, you know that?"  
  
"Well it must be good to be like him; you agreed to marry him, after all!"  
  
"One of your father is enough!"  
  
"Yeah, anyway... can we get the canary creams?"  
  
"I must admit, it would be amusing to see your Dad as a bird," she concedes, passing me a packet to carry. We carry on along the aisle when suddenly she lets go of my hand and spins around. "There is a limit to how long someone can spend staring before it becomes irritating. Not far after that limit, it becomes harassment."  
  
"S-sorry-" stammers the shop assistant. She's not sorry, just frightened my Mum snapping at her. "You're Hermione Granger, aren't you? I thought I recognised you from the papers. I remember reading in the Prophet years ago that you had a blind son - this is him, isn't it? I'm so sorry about that."  
  
"You're new here, aren't you?" Mum asks coldly. "Firstly, you may address me as Mrs Weasley, _not_ Hermione. Secondly yes, this is indeed my son Hugo, who may be blind but is in every other way a perfectly ordinary boy - a human being in his own right, and not just an object to be discussed. Thirdly, why would you be sorry? Were you somehow responsible for his blindness? Or are you insinuating that it is in some way unfortunate that I have a blind son? I do not believe that you have any children - I am so sorry. Perhaps if you did you would realise that it does not matter if they are blind, deaf, and dumb."  
  
"I only-"  
  
"My brother-in-law is extremely selective when it comes to employing staff and I am certain that he ensures all receive appropriate training before they are permitted to work unsupervised. He would be highly concerned if any customer had cause for complaint."  
  
"I-I'm very sorry that I offended you, Mrs Weasley," the woman stutters nervously. I've known Mum to be scary before, like the time when Dad tried to put the dishes away by magic and the time Rose and I decided to find out whether we could slide down the bannisters (Rose did hold my hand while I was sliding so I couldn't fall the wrong way, and it didn't work very well as a slide because we kept sticking, but Mum was still convinced that it was dangerous). I've never known her be as scary as this, though.  
  
There's a different shop assistant manning the till, and Mum pays for the canary creams and then leaves. She's holding my hand tighter than usual, crushing my fingers, until she doesn't realise until I tug against her grip.  
  
We disapparate home, squeezed through that tight rubber tube until we pop out of the end. I think about going to practise the piano, but I don't feel like it. I just sit at the kitchen table, listening to Mum cooking dinner. Almost immediately, different smells start filling the kitchen as a frying pan fizzles and pops and boiling water makes a pan lid clink up and down. Curry, I decide.  
  
"What's wrong, Hugo?"  
  
"What? Nothing."  
  
"You're not usually this quiet. Come on, what are you thinking?"  
  
It takes a bit of coaxing, but eventually I concede."You know you said it didn't make a difference that I was blind? It does, really, doesn't it? Like I might be a wizard, but I'm never going to be able to do all of the things that other wizards do. I can't see to aim spells, I won't be able to play Quidditch - and I can't do all the things muggle boys do either. Doesn't it make life hard for you and Dad, having to look after me all the time and lead me everywhere and explain to stupid people-"  
  
"Hugo! Yes, it makes life harder, but I don't regret any of it. And don't talk like that. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. And if there are some things which you can't do as well, there are other things which you are better at than normal boys, muggle or wizard - your music, for a start. Yes, other children might find it easier to learn, but hardly any of them take it as seriously as you. When we got the harp, I wondered whether it would mean you spent less time practising the piano, but it hasn't. There are very few children your age who would play two instruments, practising each for more than an hour every day. And you write- no, I haven't read your stories, and I won't unless you want me to. That's something not many children do."  
  
"If I could go out with my friends and play in the park like Rose and everyone else, I probably would. I wish I could be like normal people, could run without the risk of crashing into something, could walk without having my arms outstretched and looking like an idiot. And I wish you and Dad didn't have to look after me all the time. I wish I could do things on my own-"  
  
"You can!"  
  
"Not as much as normal people. I wish I could see, because being blind is rubbish." There's a short silence when I finish speaking. I hear Mum swallow hard, twice, apparently more upset than I thought. I wish I hadn't said out loud what I was thinking, because now she's upset. "I wish I knew why. Why I'm blind, when Rose isn't - not that I want her to be! I heard someone say that it was because of what happened to you during the war, but no-one ever told me. Maybe at first because I was too young, then later because it never seemed the right time. I want to know all the things that no-one's told me, not just what's happening to me but why it's happening. It turns out the whole wizarding world know that my famous parents have a blind son. They probably know more about it than me."  
  
"Your father and I have told them nothing, but they have ways of finding out. Patient confidentiality at St Mungo's- is an issue. Particularly when it comes to famous patients, like the heroes of the wizarding world. The Daily Prophet doesn't care how it gets information so long as it gets that information and can plaster it across the front page."  
  
"But what _do_ they know? What have they said about me? It's not fair; I can't read the papers, so for all I know they contain details of everything I do, every day."  
  
"If they did, the Daily Prophet would be seeking new management. I worked in Magical Law Enforcement before you were born, and I have experience of dealing with the press."  
  
"But still, they probably know more about why I'm like this than I do. And they've published it, so the entire wizarding world know too. But I don't. I know the healers can't fix it, but I don't know why. Everyone else at school knows; for a lot of them, it's genetic problems. Mike lost his to an infection as a baby, and Rhiannon was in a fire when she was a few years old. But I don't know what happened to me; I just say it's genetic, because after all someone said it's because of something that happened to you. Obviously I couldn't tell people the exact reason, because of the Statute and all of that, but I want to know. For me."  
  
"It's only fair. We were going to tell you when you were older, but maybe we forgot how grown-up you are already. You know I told you about the war..?" 


	8. Confidentiality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mum stands up and walks away from the kitchen table, opening and closing the fridge then plonking something down on the counter next to the cooker. There's a loud rattling as she rummages through the cutlery drawer, then the rhythmic thumping of chopping vegetables. Sometimes, Mum uses magic to cook, but today she's doing at least part of it herself.

  **Chapter Eight - Confidentiality**  
   
  
"When we were on the run during the wizarding war, we were captured and-" Mum pauses. "This is why we wanted to wait until you were older. A lot of horrible things happened during the war, things you shouldn't have to think about yet. Ever."  
  
I just sit in silence, knowing that she'll carry on. I've heard enough about the Death Eaters to have an idea of what it means to be captured by them. By the sound of it, most people who met Death Eaters ended up dead.  
  
"The term 'dark magic' is used to describe a huge area of magic - all curses, many jinxes, some potions. Really, very little of that is dark magic. The only true dark magic is the unforgiveable curses, which you shouldn't learn about properly until NEWT level Defence Against the Dark Arts. They have to be meant, otherwise they won't work - anger doesn't work, and nor does a desire to save other people. You have to want to hurt the other person, or to kill them. And because they are true dark magic, because of the power and evil in them, they leave traces. You remember visiting that house in Godric's Hollow? The roof is completely gone, and dark magic has contaminated the bricks and beams. It's made them start to decay, very slowly. Aunt Ginny's called curse-breakers to help her remove all contaminated material and vanish it completely, because no-one knows all of the effects it might have if left there."  
  
"When they captured us, they tortured me." She says it quickly, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "For information, partly, but mostly for fun. They used an unforgiveable curse, and of course dark magic always leaves a trace. Unfortunately in this case, that trace lead to your optic nerves failing to develop. Why it affected those nerves and no others, no-one knows. We can only be grateful- at least you can still walk, and talk, and hear, and play your instruments."  
  
"So they know what the problem is, but the healers can't fix it?"  
  
"It was caused by magic, by dark magic. That's why they can't find a way to fix it. Muggles can't do anything about nerves, either. They spent that first year first figuring out what the problem was and then trying to find an alternative way to transmit information between the eye and the brain, which is usually done by the optic nerve-"  
  
"I know. We learnt about the eye in science back in year three." Lily still hasn't really done that topic - I asked her - but it was nice for us to have some idea of what the problems might be. We had big models of the eye, with all of the different parts, and more models with the optic nerve and optic tracts and everything, leading up to the brain.  
  
"Yes, well they couldn't get anything to work. They haven't given up completely; they're still keeping an eye out, during their research, for anything which might help. The fact that it was caused by dark magic, not just by any normal spell, makes it more serious, as there may still be lingering traces inside your body and particularly around the eye area." Mum sounds like she's reciting it now, telling me all of the things that they must have told her when they gave up.  
  
"For the first year of your life, it was really hard. I will never forget when, with you a few hours old, we realised that you couldn't see. We stayed at the hospital for longer than usual, and once we were allowed home it was weekly hospital visits for months afterwards. They became less frequent until we were told that they had tried everything. Every couple of months you had to go in for a check up, to make sure the damage wasn't spreading to other parts of your body - although I don't know what they would have done it that had happened. You probably remember some of them, sitting in the healer's office for half a day, being poked around and having spells cast on you. They decided when you were six that most of the danger was past, so since then you've only had your biannual check-ups."  
  
"Pretty much everyone else at school has check-ups too, just with normal muggle doctors," I say. We all enjoy complaining about check-ups, where people like to move our heads about and choke us with their stinking breaths as they lean too close to our faces. I have to be careful not to mention any of the details of mine, but I can certainly comment on the stinking breath and being prodded.  
  
Mum stands up and walks away from the kitchen table, opening and closing the fridge then plonking something down on the counter next to the cooker. There's a loud rattling as she rummages through the cutlery drawer, then the rhythmic thumping of chopping vegetables. Sometimes, Mum uses magic to cook, but today she's doing at least part of it herself.  
  
The thumping pauses. "You know I said earlier that St Mungo's has confidentiality issues?" Mum says, then carries on chopping.  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"There's a check they do, a few months before babies are born, in which they can make sure the baby is developing properly and also find out whether it's a boy or a girl. I told your Dad before Rose was born that I didn't want to know, and he said that it was alright and we could ask the healers not to do that part of the check."  
  
Thump, thump, thump-  
  
"So we had the check, and found out that there were no problems, and we'd asked them not to tell us the gender so they didn't. We went home, everything was fine-"  
  
Thump, thump-  
  
"Splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet the next day, 'Hermione Granger expecting a daughter!' - first of all, they refuse to accept that I chose to become Hermione Weasley. Secondly- well, it's obvious. I asked them not to tell me, and they told the whole of the wizarding world. Then the WWN and every magazine were begging me for interviews. I did write one statement - to point out that this information should never have been released and I was very angry about it. St Mungo's ordered an urgent investigation and suspended the healer responsible; she gave a formal apology and was allowed to return to work."  
  
Thump. The chopping pauses.  
  
"When I was pregnant with you, I refused to have that check, because I knew there was no other way I could prevent that from happening again. And while St Mungo's couldn't have gotten away with just an apology the second time around it wouldn't have stopped them from leaking the information. For the young healers, that kind of information is probably worth more than they earn in a year. And whatever precautions we took, it would find its way onto the front page. So I refused to have the check."  
  
Mum pours the vegetables into a pan and fills the kettle under the tap, the water thundering against the bottom. The switch clicks on, and there's a low rumbling as it begins to heat. "I've always wondered- if we'd had that check, would we have noticed the problem earlier? Early enough to fix it? So the wizarding world found out that you were going to be a boy - at least you'd have been born with working eyes. And- within a few hours of us finding out that you were blind, the entire country knew. That information should never have left the hospital ward so quickly, but St Mungo's has patient confidentiality issues. The same thing happened to Aunt Ginny - she did request the genders, but she still didn't want the media to get details of James and Albus before they were born. The only reason Lily's information didn't get leaked was because Uncle Harry threatened all of the reporters and healers that he would do whatever it took to secure them cells in Azkaban - of course that was after you were born."  
  
The kettle boils, and Mum pours the water into the pan of vegetables. "When the wizarding world found out that you were blind, some people started asking the same questions as I was asking myself: would it have been different if I'd had the check? Had I been irresponsible, caring more about my own personal preferences that the health of the baby? Very few actually pointed out that I shouldn't have needed to worry, that I should have been able to trust the hospital. And I was occupied with looking after you and Lily, with all of your hospital visits and worrying about the future, so they just saw me failing to defend myself and decided that I was either too stuck-up to care what people thought of me or that I agreed with them and was embarrassed to admit it. By the time I had a chance to think about it, they'd moved on and no-one was interested in hearing my side any more."  
  
Mum sits down again, heavily. "I've always wondered whether they were right. Whether I was stupid and irresponsible for refusing to have that check, for putting you at risk just because I didn't want to know your gender before you were born. Whether if I'd had it, they'd have realised that your optical nerve wasn't developing properly and been able to fix it early. For all I know, we'd have been able to get responsible healers and the information would have stayed private as it was supposed to."  
  
"You said they can't fix damage caused by dark magic," I point out. "So even if I hadn't been born yet, what difference would it have made? You'd have known but not been able to do anything."  
  
"I know-" a hollow laugh- "but I can't help but wonder-"  
  
"Stop wondering! What would they have done? Tried to make you get rid of me? If that's what they'd have tried, I'm glad they didn't get a chance!"  
  
"I wouldn't have-!"  
  
"Then every wizard in the country would have been arguing over whether you should or not, and criticising you for choosing to give birth to a cripple."  
  
"Don't call yourself that."  
  
"But I am-"  
  
"Just because you can't see doesn't mean you're useless. So many people walk around with their eyes closed-"  
  
"What?" I interrupt, confused.  
  
"It's a metaphor. I mean they ignore their surroundings; they don't literally walk around with their eyes closed!"  
  
"Well I wasn't to know-"  
  
She cuts me off. "I'm not laughing at you, Hugo! It's perfectly reasonable to be confused; a lot of common sayings are very odd if taken literally. What I was saying is that you might be blind but you notice far more than most people, and you don't let it get in your way. You play the piano better than most children your age and you think more about things because you have to recognise them in other ways than by sight."  
  
"Other people don't know that, though. To them, I'm a cripple. And I am, in a way - I can do things that normal people can't do, but it goes both ways - I'm just stating a fact, Mum. I'm not really upset about it, I just accept it."  
  
"I-" she pauses before continuing- "I used to think that, when you were a toddler. Do you remember how I used to follow you everywhere, not leave you alone for a minute, carry you up and down the stairs even when you'd been walking for over two years? A few weeks after you started school, I realised that actually you were normal, in every way that mattered. You were my little boy, with your own character and sense of humour, who didn't like orange juice and could never remember which hands his knife and fork were supposed to go in. As normal as any other little boy."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." I've basically tuned out of the conversation. Mum is always trying to convince me that I'm normal. Unnecessarily. I know I'm not, and I accept that. There are benefits to being like me, as well as disadvantages; if I weren't blind, I wouldn't have met Aidan or Mr Greg, and I probably wouldn't play the piano - let alone the harp. But I'd have other friends and be able to run around outside with other boys my age. And people wouldn't fuss over me all of the time. "Is tea ready yet?"  
  
She jumps up very quickly and there's a lot of sizzling and stirring, water being poured away, nice smells wafting round the kitchen. "We're just waiting for your father. It's-"  
  
"Curry. Thai Green." I feign boredom.  
  
"Correct! As I would expect from you!"  
  
"It's obvious. What time is it?"  
  
"Nearly twenty past six."  
  
I frown. "Dad's late. He always comes home at ten past; he was called in urgently, but that was this morning. If it's still from that, it's a very long job."  
  
"You know what his work's like. He's probably been cornered by someone at the ministry; he'll be back soon."  
  
"He's hardly ever late for tea. Five minutes sometimes, but not more; as you know, because he always comes in just before it's done. If he's needed for work, he comes home just for tea and goes out again. Whenever he gets here and tea isn't about to go on the plate, you mention that he's early. And that curry's been done for a little while now, so Dad's late."  
  
"I'm not entirely sure that makes sense, but yes. He's late, which admittedly doesn't happen very often at tea time. But it's nothing to worry about; give him a few more minutes, I've got a warming charm on the plates."  
  
"Why would I worry?" I ask. "It's just an observation."  
  
"No reason at all," Mum says quickly. "I just thought you might be, because you were saying it hardly ever happens."  
  
"Stating facts." I shrug, before a thought hits me. "You're worried, aren't you? Why?"  
  
"I'm not-"  
  
" I can hear it in your voice, and you're protesting too much. You always say lying is bad, Mum!"  
  
"I'm sorry," she says reluctantly. A nervous laugh. "No real reason why I'm worried; it's one of those irrational fears you can't justify or get rid of."  
  
"If you could justify it, it wouldn't be irrational, so part of that sentence was unnecessary." I can never resist pointing out things like that; it drives Rose mad, but Mum does it to Dad all of the time.  
  
"Yes, clever-clogs."  
  
Mum's breath catches quickly, and the air seems grow the tiniest bit warmer. Suddenly Dad's voice sounds from somewhere near the middle of the kitchen table. "Sorry I'm running late; something came up at work and I won't be back for another couple of hours. I'll explain when I get home." The warmth disappears, and Mum and I are silent for a moment.  
  
"I suppose we'd better get on without him," Mum says at last, placing two plates on the table and sitting down. "I'm sure it's nothing serious." Um, he's just said he has to stay at work for another couple of hours, with no explanation. It's nothing planned or he'd have said earlier. And if it was something that could be put off, he'd come home for tea then go out again. I don't mention those arguments to Mum, though. She knows, she just doesn't want to admit it.  
  
I mix up the rice with the curry so that the sauce sticks it all together. It's good, hot and fresh, just spicy enough to be a proper curry while not too hot that the chilli overwhelms the rest of the flavour. Mum tries to talk at first but gives up as I feign complete concentration in my food. We've spent enough time together today to run through all interesting topics (and a lot of boring ones too), and conversation's become forced. Better silence than forced conversation. Particularly when you can justify the silence by the fact you're doing something else at the same time.  
  
Mum doesn't bother to wash up our plates- "there are only two, so we might as well do them along with everything else." That never happens! She hates having dirty dishes around, cluttering up the kitchen. I don't like them myself, because when they're clean and put away I know exactly where they are and that they're not covered in sauce or anything.  
  
We sit in the living room, turn the TV on but don't really pay attention to it. It's the end of some quiz show, which seems to consist more of the host talking about nothing in particular than actual questions. The few questions I hear before I tune out are about the private lives of Quidditch players and pop stars' love lives.  
  
"...Coming up this evening, the Weird Sisters through the decades: a look at the revolutionary band which changed the British musical scene for good. That's at nine; but first, Rolf and Luna show you a side of magical creatures you've never seen before, on a journey from the Scottish lochs to the Romanian dragon sanctuaries, in Fantastic Beasts Up Close."  
  
The theme music starts, a kind of folk-music-y style, very upbeat with a strumming banjo and some kind of flute thing and a constant drum rhythm underneath. I find myself jiggling along to it, and decide that even if this is just a boring animal documentary at least it has good theme music. Animal documentaries are especially boring when the presenters keep saying 'look' and 'see the way...' instead of actually saying out loud what's so impressive.  
  
The moment the music finishes and the presenters start speaking, I know this one will be different. A man - Rolf - explains all of the details about how the animals live and what they do, in a way I can pretty much understand even without being able to see the pictures. And a woman with a dreamy voice describes the creatures she's apparently watching, describing every little feature from the shape of their teeth (or beaks) to the way they stand and walk. I don't like to admit it, but she paints a better picture even than Lily.  
  
"...if you look through those trees- can you see it?" I almost revise my opinion of Luna's presenting style, but she continues. "Dark shapes moving. Now from this view, they could be anything, but if we very carefully move closer we can see whether they're what I think they are." There's a minute of rustling, before she continues in a very quiet voice. "There, right there, is a fully grown acromantula. A lot of people think that they're just large spiders, but they're more than that. See the fine hairs sticking out from each leg? Each of those hairs is incredibly sensitive, allowing the acromantula to feel movements as much as thirty feet away; that's why we're staying at a safe distance. The acromantula has a limited sense of hearing and even less sensitivity for aromas-"  
  
I hear a low moan from the doorway. "Ron!" Mum exclaims. "Really! It's only a picture-"  
  
"Now if it turns around- there are the pincers, and the glands where it produces the venom. The venom of the acromantula-"  
  
"Come on, Ron, your tea's on the plate in the kitchen; I put a spell on it so it'll still be warm."  
  
"That-"  
  
"RON! It's a picture on a screen. It can't climb through and eat you!" Dad lets out a sound almost like a whimper before Mum bustles him out, shutting the door behind her and taking him down the hall to the kitchen. Slightly bemused, I try to figure out what I missed. I suddenly wonder why Dad was late home, but the program is interesting and I can ask later. And I don't know why he reacted like that to the TV, so I'm not sure it would be a good idea to bother him right now.  
  
After the magical creatures program is the one on the Weird Sisters, so I leave the TV on because I can't be bothered to switch it off and it's reasonably interesting. At least, the music and the corresponding national events are interesting; I'm not so sure about the bits about suspected affairs and divorces and all of that. All of the press surrounding their every move. Like Mum and dad had to- have to - deal with. None of the band members had children at any point, but if they had they would have had the same problem as Mum and Aunt Ginny.  
  
Once I've decided that all of the music sounds pretty much the same, and they don't have anything really interesting to say about the band members, I wander over to the harp. I say "TV off" and it falls silent immediately, and I set my hands on the strings and find the pedals with my feet. Familiarity is the most important thing to work on, Mrs Roy says, and she tells me to play as much as I can.  
  
"Hugo! It's nearly ten o'clock! Just because it's Sunday tomorrow, you still have to go to bed." I play one last ripple then turn around. "Is it? I suppose it must be... Why did Dad act like that?"  
  
"He's scared of spiders," she says calmly. "Very scared!"  
  
"What's scary about them? I mean the woman said they had venom and pincers, and they're dangerous- OK, I suppose they might be kind of scary. But it's only a picture on a screen!"  
  
"It's called arachnophobia. An irrational fear of spiders; a lot of people have it. Most spiders are really small, smaller than a pea, but he still finds them frightening; and they might seem a bit creepy, because having eight long legs and a small body is a bit... different. They do scuttle around in a way that I think is kind of cute but that your dad hates. But then I don't mind spiders most of the time, and I find acromantulas horrible. I think it's the fact that they're so much bigger than normal spiders, and you can see the eyes."  
  
"You object to the _eyes_?" I ask incredulously "Not the pincers, or the venom... Everyone has eyes!"  
  
"They're really horrible eyes, and there are a lot of them. The way acromantulas move can be a bit menacing too, because they're huge and scuttle around with all of their eight legs. Anyway, don't mention them to Dad because he panics at even the _thought_ of spiders."  
  
I shrug and go upstairs. As I lie down, I realise I still don't know why Dad was late home; but if it was really important, someone would have told me. I can always ask tomorrow... if I remember...


	9. Christmas Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Platform Nine and Three Quarters is less busy than it was in September but is certainly not empty. We arrive before the train gets in, so it's only adults and younger siblings. I unzip my jacket after a few minutes, because while it's freezing outside it's pretty warm in here. Unlike the first of September, where everything merged together, there are two clear scents filling the air: pumpkin pasties and coffee.

  
**Chapter Nine - Christmas Cheer**   


  
  
Platform Nine and Three Quarters is less busy than it was in September but is certainly not empty. We arrive before the train gets in, so it's only adults and younger siblings. I unzip my jacket after a few minutes, because while it's freezing outside it's pretty warm in here. Unlike the first of September, where everything merged together, there are two clear scents filling the air: pumpkin pasties and coffee. I also pick out, less strongly, hot chocolate, mulled wine, and barbeque smoke. We move nearer to the barbeque, so that I can hear the sizzling and smell the meat as well as the acrid smoke.  
  
When Mum goes to the toilet, I tug on Dad's arm and point in the direction of the sound. A couple of minutes later, I have a sausage in a roll (what muggles call a hot-dog, although that's a stupid name; it bears no resemblance whatsoever to Snuffles, Benji, Min, or any other dog I've ever met) in my hand and am struggling to decide between biting into it straight away and being careful to avoid a burnt tongue.  
  
"Eat up quickly, before Rose gets here," Dad whispers. Mum comes back and mutters something like 'honestly, Ron', then giggles at whatever he does next. I stuff the remainder of the roll into my mouth and chew hard, then attempt to lick the stickiness off my hands. Mum sends both of us to wash our hands, and when we come out again the train is hissing at the platform.  
  
The number of people seems to have doubled, and I press close to Dad as he weaves his way through the crowd. All around, students home for the holidays are chattering animatedly with their families.  
  
"Hello, Rose! Had a good term?" Dad asks when we stop.  
  
"Hi Dad, Hugo. Yes, it was okay."  
  
The Potters are talking next to us; or at least Aunt Ginny's trying to coax words out of Al while he stubbornly refuses to do much more than grunt. Rose has opened up a bit, and is considerably more talkative than him. Suddenly someone comes charging up and starts talking as fast as he can about whatever comes into his head, regardless of the conversations he was interrupting.  
  
"...and then he said he'd tell Professor Longbottom, and after Herbology Professor Longbottom made us stay behind and told us that it was our final warning and if it happened again we'd get detention, but he didn't do anything that time because he doesn't listen to sneaks either, and..."  
  
"James!" Uncle Harry interrupts tiredly, and James pauses for a second before carrying on. We leave the station doing our best to ignore him, while Rose hangs behind talking to Dad and Al maintains a sullen silence despite Aunt Ginny's questions. I walk with Lily, searching in my head for something to talk about but not thinking of anything. Mum and Uncle Harry are talking about Christmas plans, so I have no idea who James thinks he's talking to. He doesn't stop, even though no one's listening.  
  
It's a relief when we go our separate ways and his voice fades out of hearing, the Potters going to the apparation point while we go to the car. The first part of the journey is silent, before Rose starts asking me questions.  
  
"Are you alright, Hugo?"  
  
It's the way that she says it that gets to me. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" I don't mean it to sound as harsh as it comes out.  
  
"You seem really quiet."  
  
"I don't have anything to say." I was looking forward to having Rose back for a few weeks, but this isn't the best start.  
  
"So what have you been doing?"  
  
"School, home, eating, sleeping... you?" It's not that I haven't done anything interesting, just that I don't have anything I really want to talk about with her. I doubt there's much she's done that she hasn't already mentioned in her letters, but I'd rather she was talking about her than about me. I don't have to listen.  
  
"Hugo!" she snaps, breaking through my daydream, "Are you even listening?"  
  
"Yeah." There's a suspicious silence, and I can feel her glaring at me. We don't talk for the rest of the journey home.  
  
The car pulls into the drive, jolting up the curb to stop on the slight slope. I undo my seatbelt and open my door, to hear Rose running round to stand by it. "Here, I'll give you a hand."  
  
"I'm fine!" I climb out, brushing past her outstretched arm as though it isn't there. It's not far at all from the car to the house, and the edges of the front path act as guides to a certain extent. Yes, there's the wall by the steps, then up the four steps to wait at the top until Mum or Dad arrives with the front door key.  
  
I do try to talk to Rose, when we're inside, but I don't really have anything to say to her. We sit in the kitchen and she talks about school, all of her lessons and the essays she was given full marks in and the times she earned house points. And she says a bit about Ravenclaw House, how they sit and talk in the common room and how she's really good at answering the riddles to get in. Then she goes on to tell us all about how Al's really quiet and doesn't talk to other people, just sits on his own in the common room until she goes to keep him company.  
  
"Do you actually ask whether he wants you there?" Interrupts Mum gently at this point. "Sometimes people sit on their own because they want to be alone. It's not always because they're too shy to sit with other people."  
  
I stand up and wander out of the kitchen, leaving them to talk. It's not like I'm playing any part in the conversation. In the living room, I face the usual decision - piano or harp? Harp, I decided, making my way over to the stool and sitting down. I pluck it and let the sound wash over me, washing away all of the miserable thoughts which have been crowding my head.  
  
I only have a few minutes to myself before the door opens quietly. I stop playing immediately, stopping the strings' vibration with my hands. "You don't have to stop," Mum says from the doorway. I shrug, hear her come further in and push the door shut behind her. "What's wrong?" she continues. "Don't tell me nothing; I've known you for ten years. What is it?"  
  
"Nothing." She sighs audibly as I sit perfectly still, refusing to turn to face her.  
  
"I know it'll take a little while to get used to having Rose here again. Try not to be too short with her, please; she's only trying to help."  
  
"I don't need help!" I snap back. "I can do things by myself."  
  
"We all know you can," Mum protests. "Rose wants-"  
  
"You know, maybe. She doesn't."  
  
"Stop it, Hugo! Your sister wants to help you like she wants to help everyone else, just as she sits with Albus in the common room at school because she thinks he's lonely and wants company. You know Al; he'd rather be alone. He hates being around people. But she thinks he's just too shy to make friends, so she insists on keeping him company, and he can't figure out how to get away. Your sister means well, even if it doesn't always seem that way to you; she's a bit like me at her age, keen to be useful and struggling to relate to people. And don't forget that she grew up with you needing help, before you started going to school and learnt to manage by yourself. She'd walk you around and pass you things. It's hard for her to accept that she doesn't have to do that any more."  
  
I don't answer, except to pluck one of the lower strings. It's a sweet, low tone, and it rings in the silence.  
  
"Please try to put up with it, Hugo. As she grows up she'll realise that her help isn't always wanted or needed, and that you don't welcome her fussing. At the moment, she's upset because she thinks she's done something wrong."  
  
"I'm not going to let her fuss over me."  
  
"Of course not! Just try to be kind when you decline her offers of help. Explain that you enjoy doing things yourself, rather than simply shoving her away, and maybe find little things she can help you with. So she feels like she's needed."  
  
"I'm not going to make up things for her to do."  
  
"Just- be kind when you say no, instead of just shoving her away. Please, Hugo."  
  
"Why do I have to be all kind and understanding to her? She's older than me; why don't you tell her that I don't need her to help me and she should stop fussing?"  
  
Mum sits down on the sofa closest to me and says in a soft voice, "I don't think she's has an easy time at Hogwarts. You heard her, talking about school work, the house points she's earned and the essays she's been given good marks in. I would have been like that if I hadn't met your Dad and Uncle Harry. It means she doesn't really have anything else to talk about. She should be chattering about her friends, like you do when you come home from school."  
  
"She always came home and talked about school work and getting good marks, when she was at primary school too. You never said anything about it then; what's changed?"  
  
"It was the same at primary school: she didn't really have any friends to talk about. But she came home at quarter past three every afternoon, and we could talk to her and keep her company. At Hogwarts, she hasn't got that. I told you because she's been having a tough time and I want her to have a happy holiday, not worrying about what she's doing wrong or if she's different to everyone else."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." It makes sense, I suppose.  
  
"Don't tell her I told you," she warns me as she stands up.  
  
"I'm not stupid." I strum out a couple of chords to indicate that the conversation is at an end, and she leaves me to my practise.  
  
I try to remember her words when I'm talking to Rose later. It's hard. "Why do you spend so much time playing that thing?" she asks me in a short break between exercises. "Isn't it boring?" I scowl at the strings, taking a deep breath before answering.  
  
"I like playing it."  
  
"But you play it all the time! We can do something else if you want. Go out in the garden..."  
  
"It's raining."  
  
"Is it?" Well obviously it is, otherwise I wouldn't have said it. The water is pattering on the windowsill; sometimes I wonder whether everyone else in the world is as deaf as I am blind. Rose gets up to check before accepting that I'm right.  
  
"OK; we can do something inside instead."  
  
I force myself to think of Mum's words, "What kind of thing?"  
  
"I don't know, just something different. You've been playing that thing all afternoon; you must be bored."  
  
"It's called a harp. And I like playing it, so I'm not bored." I don't care what Mum said. Being nice doesn't work on Rose, apparently; she thinks you're saying things just because you don't want to trouble her. When actually you're saying them because they're true.  
  
"OK, I only thought..." The hurt is clear in her voice.  
  
Guilty, I force myself to be nice. "If you want to do something we can. Just don't worry, I'm not bored." It would be quite nice to do something with my sister, since we haven't seen each other for months. But we've never really found it easy to do things together; we bring out the worst in each other.  
  
"No, it's fine, you keep doing that." There's a tiny catch in her voice as she stands up and walks quickly from the room. A bit of me wants to go after her, but I don't know what I'd say. I'd probably end up making things worse.  
  
I stop playing and just sit there, not in the mood to play any more. Not because I'm bored, but because I'm distracted. It's too strange, having Rose back. I'm used to it just being me and either Mum or Dad. At least my school hasn't broken up yet, so I only have to get through this weekend and then it'll just be evenings after school. Once my Christmas holidays start... hopefully we'll have gotten used to each other again.  
  
It's the nativity play on Friday, and I'm going to play the piano for the carols. That's something I can do to distract me now, I realise, and I go over to the piano. A couple of exercises to warm up, then I find the notes and launch into _Gabriel's Message_. Last year someone else did it, but they were a year six at the time so they've left now. Mr Greg told them I was good enough, and taught me all of the pieces.  
  
I move straight into _Deck the Halls_ , and suddenly there's a voice singing along from the doorway. "Dad!" I shout, stopping. "Cut it out!"  
  
"'T'is the season to be jolly!" He comes to stand next to me and says in a mock-sad voice, "can't I join in?"  
  
"No! Go away!" I wouldn't mind so much if he could actually sing in tune, but he can't. I reach out and shove him, sitting upright again quickly to avoid toppling off the stool.  
  
"It's Christmas! Everyone should be happy at Christmas time." He's being deliberately exasperating, and it's working.  
  
"It's not Christmas for another two weeks!"  
  
"You were playing Christmas carols..." True, I have to admit reluctantly.  
  
"Well, I can hardly play for the nativity play without practising them first."  
  
"You're playing for the school nativity play?"  
  
"YES, DAD!" I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it at least three times.  
  
"Wow!" He shouldn't be surprised, but of course he is. "You'll have people singing along on the night, so you should get used to..."  
  
"NO! Go away."  
  
"We should go carol singing this year. Round the streets, bringing Christmas cheer to one and all." He launches into an operatic rendition of _We Three Kings_ , and I stand up and stomp out of the room. He finishes the line before running after me. "Come on, Hugo, cheer up; we're going to get the Christmas tree some time this afternoon. If you want to carry on playing, we can go later..?"  
  
"No, we can go now." He's spoiled my mood for playing.  
  
"Sure?" He asks, pointlessly. I don't bother to reply. Sighing, he raises his voice. "Rose! 'Mione!" They appear, slowly, clearly less enthusiastic than him. "Time to get the Christmas tree!"  
  
We pile into the car and Dad turns the radio on, to the WWN briefly then switching very quickly to a muggle one when he realises it's Witching Hour. Apparently none of the stations have what he wants, because he turns it off again and starts singing _Jingle Bells_. Mum joins in unenthusiastically, while I lean across to whisper to Rose. "Welcome home."  
  
"Benefits of boarding school: no embarrassing parents," she whispers back.  
  
The car bumps about on a rough road, in and out of dips, the tyres crunching on loose gravel. We pass close to a hedge, the leaves brushing against the sides of the car then bouncing free as we pass them. I open my window because the car is hot and stuffy, and I touch them as they pass. They're wet, dripping from the earlier rainfall. The air is cold, fresh and clean.  
  
Dad pulls up and stops singing. "Out you hop," he says, opening his door. I do the same, slipping down to the ground, then I stop and stand waiting. "Come on, Hugo," Dad says, touching my arm with his hand. I shake my head.  
  
"Rose?" She practically runs round, slipping her arm through mine and leading me off. I hold her back for long enough to shut my car door.  
  
"I thought you didn't like me helping you," she says, almost accusingly.  
  
"Only when I can do things myself." I struggle to admit it, that I can't manage on my own here. "So where are we?"  
  
"The Christmas Tree farm that we've been to every year for as long as I remember-"  
  
"I know that. I mean I can't really remember what it looks like. It's a year since I came here last."  
  
"Oh, sorry, yeah. Well, there's a big building up in front and-"  
  
"What kind of building?" She's definitely not as good at descriptions as Lily, who wouldn't need this prompting.  
  
"Oh, big and- it's made of wood, with green window frames. The roof slopes normally at the bottom but there's an angle so it's a shallower gradient at the top. A little round window in the gable - the cross-section of the rood, kind of the end of the loft..."  
  
"I know what a gable is."  
  
"Oh, well that's the building. Oh, it has a single step up to the door; that's green too. There's a big sign just in front reading 'Christmas trees sold here' with a picture of a tree. The round the side, where we're going now, are the trees. There are quite a lot of other people looking around them too. Mum and Dad are picking some out already, ones about my height..."  
  
Selecting a Christmas tree is a pretty boring procedure. Mum and Dad wander around saying "How about this one?" and "Isn't it a bit on the tall side?" (to which Dad's answer is that he doesn't think so) "It's a bit thin, isn't it?" and "Look how many needles it's dropped already!" Eventually they pick one out - it's apparently nice and balanced, good thick foliage, a sensible height - and start talking to a man who is apparently in charge.  
  
"Do you two want to carry it?" Mum asks, and Rose excitedly says yes. I find myself struggling to wrap my arms around a net full of prickly plant as it attempts to burst out of captivity, doing my best not to drop it and to keep up with the pace Rose is setting at the other end.  
  
"Will it be okay like that?" Dad says once he's taken it off us and loaded it into the boot.  
  
"It's fine," Mum replies, and the boot is closed with a dull thunk. My seat's been folded down to make space for it so I have to sit in the middle seat instead, with Rose on one side and a tree bulging out of its net on the other. You'd think they could have increased the undetectable extension charm just for this journey, but Mum probably thinks there's a risk of it making the muggles suspicious.  
  
I guess Christmas trees are exciting to most people, with a big fuss made over buying and decorating them. I put on a couple of baubles to keep Mum happy, but otherwise stand around while the rest of the family chat excitedly and the radio plays Christmas songs (Dad finally found a muggle station playing seasonal music). There is one thing I like about the tree: the smell of pine needles. It almost makes up for the great prickly mass which I will spend the next week walking into because I can't remember where it is; all right, I get used to it more quickly than that, but still...  
  
Eventually they finish hanging up the decorations, and after about half an hour more of talking aimlessly Dad goes to make the tea and Mum goes off with Rose to somewhere or other. I refuse Dad's offer to go with him, instead turning the radio off and sitting down on the harp stool. I touch it and feel something unfamiliar. Tinsel.  
  
I find the end and unwind it, struggling to reach to the top. Once it's free, I toss it in the vague direction of the tree and sit down. They always put decorations on top of my piano, but they're not doing it to my harp as well. I still have a couple of lessons before Christmas, anyway, and I don't want to turn up with it looking stupid. Not to mention that the tinsel gets in the way of the strings.  
  
Stupid bloody Christmas. A time when the world goes crazy, filling the place with junk and playing bad music. Going from house to house, surrounded by cousins and aunts and uncles and the same bland old turkey, being on best behaviour, trying not to scream out of boredom. And two weeks without school, not seeing Aidan or Terry or Kelly or anyone else who I can actually relate to.  
  
I sigh and place my hands on the strings, preparing to lose myself in a world where none of that matters.


	10. The Slytherin Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bye, Hugo. Have a good Christmas."
> 
> "I'll try. See you in two weeks."
> 
> "See you then." 
> 
> I shrug on my coat and, with a final 'Bye all!' wander slowly down the corridor to where the parents are waiting.

**Chapter Ten - The Slytherin Conspiracy**  
  
   
  
"...We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!" I finish playing with a final flourish and pause for a second before the applause breaks out. I turn on the piano stool, stand, and Mr Greg is by my side taking me to join the rest of the juniors in the middle of the hall. We bow in the direction of the parents, then wait for the clapping to die down.  
  
Five minutes later, we're in the classrooms collecting our bags and saying goodbye. It's the end of term, the start of the Christmas holidays, and while there are a lot of high spirits left over from the play it's clear there are a lot us who'd rather the holiday didn't exist.  
  
I can hear Kelly arguing with Miss Scott, flatly refusing to take her donkey mask off. Her voice is slightly muffled but it, but she still comes across clearly. "No. I don't want to."  
  
"Okay then, but you'll have to bring it back next term; the Year Sixes need it for their end-of year play."  
  
"Can't they use the cow or something?"  
  
"I'm afraid not; they're doing A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it says very clearly that Bottom is given an ass' head by Puck. If you want one of your own, why don't you make it in crafts time next year?"  
  
Kelly brightens up. "Can I really?"  
  
"Of course you may, or I wouldn't suggest it," says Miss Scott calmly. "Now are you going to take off or borrow that one?"  
  
"Borrow it," Kelly says decisively. "Bye, Miss!"  
  
Miss Scott says goodbye to her and moves on to deal with someone else, as Kelly calls a loud goodbye to the class in general before leaving with one final donkey bray. I turn to my left, where I know Aidan is standing. "Bye, Aidan."  
  
"Bye, Hugo. Have a good Christmas."  
  
"I'll try. See you in two weeks."  
  
"See you then."

I shrug on my coat and, with a final 'Bye all!' wander slowly down the corridor to where the parents are waiting.  
  
The next day, the visiting begins. Christmas at the Burrow is a tradition dating back for as long as I remember. We do new year at Grimmauld Place and Boxing Day at Uncle Bill's. Not wanting to be left out, Mum invites loads of people round on Christmas Eve, and the other aunts and uncles have claimed most of the other days.  
  
Uncle Percy organises the first one, this year, the usual stuffy overly-formal affair with trestle tables in the garden and platters of little triangular sandwiches and mini quiches. At the bottom of the garden is a space for "you kids to run around in if you must", but Molly and Lucy tend to take us off out of sight of the grown-ups.  
  
We sit in the room the pair have to share (something they complain about a lot), just talking aimlessly. Victoire and Dominique haven't come (apparently they're busy doing something with Aunt Fleur; more likely they just don't want to sit through one of Uncle Percy's parties), so Molly's the eldest (well James is in the same year, but you wouldn't realise it, and if Louis' birthday had been much later he'd be in the year below) and she leads the conversation.  
  
"So, long time no see, at least for most of you! Anyone done anything interesting since we last met?" There's a pause before James launches into an account of his entire term: all of the pranks he's played, the detentions he's had (he seems to find them amusing), and the essays he's been given to redo. Parts of it seem vaguely familiar, maybe from Platform Nine-and-three-quarters or maybe because he just generally repeats himself a lot.  
  
"So, Louis," Molly interrupts firmly (we've given up on trying to be polite to James; he doesn't take hints), "I know we're in the same year but we don't talk much. Gossip from the Slytherin common room?"  
  
"I'm not going to tell you our secrets, if that's what you want," he answers slowly in a low voice. "It's the same as usual: a dark mystery, a game spanning centuries in which we are nought but pawns, controlled by masters whose names we do not know. Double-crossing, illegal activities, dark magic..." He almost keeps the laughter from his voice.  
  
Molly joins in "Plotting to take control of Hogwarts..."  
  
"Nay, the world," Louis corrects. "Preparing to strike in the dead of night, when all seems quiet and the Ministry suspects nothing, we will set the world aflame..."  
  
"If you burn it, where are you going to live?" asks Rose.  
  
"We will colonise the moon as we wait for the fires to burn out."  
  
I join in. "How are you going to get there?"  
  
"Our greatest minds ponder even now that great enigma. Soon, for sure, they will solve the mysteries of long-distance travel and we may proceed unhindered. We will wait for as long as we must, for this plan has been centuries in the making, a game set in progress by the great Salazar Slytherin himself. It may not happen within our lifetimes, but we know that we work for the glory of Slytherin House and with that we are satisfied."  
  
"Ravenclaw house will stand against you," Rose says. "With wit we will oppose every foul action you attempt."  
  
"And if that fails, we'll join you," Molly adds. Everyone laughs.  
  
"I thought you said you weren't going to tell us your secrets," I say when I get my laughter under control.  
  
"Ah," Louis says in the same low voice, "but those were not our secrets. Those were merely the outlines; you know nothing of the details. And for all you know, even those outlines were false, intended to mislead our foes." We're laughing helplessly again, mostly at his mock-serious tone.  
  
"I think maybe we'd better try to get into Slytherin, Lily," I say. "That way we can colonise the moon rather than burning with the Earth."  
  
"There is wisdom in my young cousin's words, my other young cousin," says Louis.  
  
"No, Lily, do not listen to them! Come to Ravenclaw, where you truly belong!" Molly speaks in a high whisper.  
  
"My sister's a Potter; she'll be in Gryffindor, where she belongs," James cuts in. Albus shuffles his feet awkwardly but is otherwise silent.  
  
"I think we should let the Sorting Hat decide," Lucy says quietly, speaking up for the first time. "There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff, which you seem to have forgotten."  
  
"Just because you can't spell doesn't mean you'll be in Hufflepuff!" The way Molly says it tells me that she and Molly have talked about this a lot before.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff," Lucy insists.  
  
"Surely it isn't a bad thing to value hard work and loyalty," Lily adds quietly. "As Lucy says, we should let the Sorting Hat decide. And I bet there are Gryffindors who can't spell."  
  
"You'd be surprised how many Ravenclaws keep dictionaries with them at all times," Molly says.  
  
"Well no-one expects you to know how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism without checking a dictionary," Louis points out.  
  
"A-N-T-I-D-I-S-E-S-T-A-B-L-I-S-H-M-E-N-T-A-R-I-A-N-I-S-M," spells Rose, and there's a moment of silence. "It's not that hard," she admits. "It's long but there aren't really any traps to fall into; you just have to make sure you don't get lost."  
  
"Ambidextrous," Louis challenges her.  
  
"A-M-B-I-D-E-X-T-R-O-U-S."  
  
"Um, hang on a sec while I get a dictionary," he says, jumping up and rummaging around somewhere behind him. "Ambidextrous- OK, got it. Can you do that again, slowly?"  
  
She does, and when she's finished there's another pause before Louis confirms that it is indeed correct. He rustles through the pages to find another one. "Presbyterian."  
  
She does need a second to think about it this time. "P-R-E-S-B- um, Y-T-E?" then finishes quickly, "R-I-A-N."  
  
"Correct," says Louis, and Rose gets a round of applause.  
  
"Yes, but do you know what it means?" asks Al, speaking for what I think is the first time today.  
  
"Um..."  
  
"The Presbyterian church is a form of Reformed Protestantism, with churches governed by representative assemblies of elders, originating in the British Isles and focussed most strongly in Scotland." That's all he says, clamming up and refusing to respond to any of the questions he's asked after that. A lot of comments are thrown his way, until everyone gives up on trying to get a response and leaves him alone.  
  
We carry on chatting for a bit longer, then drift aimlessly back downstairs to find out whether the cakes have been brought out yet. They have, so we make our way along the table taking as much as we can get away with. Lily has two plates, and keeps on saying things like "a jam pastry thing?", "lemon cake?", and "mince pie?", to all of which I nod.  
  
Now we do take advantage of the space at the bottom of the garden, not to run around but rather to sit in a tight circle with our plates of cake in the middle (so the grown-ups can't see how much we've taken). The odd strain of conversation drifts across from where the adults are still trapped on the patio, Uncle Percy's voice loudest of all.  
  
"...and he actually asked why it mattered whether he had identification. Well, I told him..."  
  
"...that he was far too normal to ever have reason to associate with Dad," Lucy finishes in a whisper. I splutter over my chocolate brownie, and I'm not the only one.  
  
"Shh," hisses Rose. "Uncle Percy's looking."  
  
"And?" says Lucy, then raising her voice, "Hey, Dad! Have you told them about the time the guy came to the door to try and convince you to join some religious lot..?" There's complete silence in both groups.  
  
"How much dessert have you kids taken?" Uncle Percy asks loudly. I stuff the remainder of my lemon cake into my mouth and follow it with a square of flapjack, before Mum has a chance to come over and see how much I have on my plate.  
  
"Just a sign of appreciation, Perce." Dad leaps to our defence, probably because he knows any challenges to our appetites will lead to comments on his own. "Delicious, Audrey! Percy, your wife is a talented lady." He finishes the sentence with his mouth full. There's an awkward silence before Uncle Percy quickly strikes up a conversation with someone else.  
  
"Mum bought them from that new baker in Hogsmeade," Molly mutters to us. "Don't tell anyone!"  
  
"Oh. Right." Now I know why Aunt Audrey and Uncle Percy's response was so unenthusiastic. Every other Weasley woman (that includes Aunt Ginny, Weasley by birth, and all of the others who like Mum are Weasleys by marriage) takes great pride in their home baking. Mum does buy most food, because she doesn't have time to cook everything, but she bakes for parties. It would be fine, and we'd just have enjoyed the food with no interest in where it came from, but Dad's attempted compliment is bound to make poor Aunt Audrey feel guilty.  
  
"So what happened when the guy at the door tried to convince him to join some religious lot?" Lily asks, changing the subject.  
  
"Oh, nothing particularly interesting," Lucy replies, "just Dad forgot that he was wearing pyjamas when he went to open the door. It didn't really matter; muggle men do it a lot; but Dad wandered round the house afterwards completely traumatised by what he'd done. Added to that, he spent five minutes convinced that the guy was actually an wizard who'd been hit by a confundus charm and come to him because he knew Dad could help, and  when he realised that the guy was actually a muggle he had to cast a memory charm because he thought he might have said things he shouldn't have about magic and stuff. But he came in and after a brief panic about whether he'd broken the statute, he decided he'd acted quickly enough to prevent damage and anyway the guy wouldn't believe him just think he was crazy, and being crazy himself was hardly going to think worse of him about it. Then he decided the worst part of the encounter was the fact he'd answered the door in his pyjamas and a couple of people had driven past in the road who might have seen him."  
  
"Slow down, Lu," Molly tells her, then to us, "so that's basically what happened. It was the day after we came back from Hogwarts and he hasn't stopped worrying about it since. We've told him a million times that it's fine, but that doesn't stop utter mortification."  
  
"A particular case in which knowledge is power," says Lucy. "Just say 'pyjamas' when there are people around and he'll do whatever you want."  
  
Louis chuckles. "See you in Slytherin, Lu. Anyway... Fred! How's life?"  
  
I'd almost forgotten that Fred was here. Aunt Angie's here but Uncle George hasn't come, apparently busy looking after the shop. He doesn't really come to any of the parties, except for Christmas at the Burrow because Granny won't hear of him missing it. He tried to leave early once, claiming that he had to make sure the shelves were fully stocked and everything was ready for the Boxing Day sales, and she told him he should have done it before and he could borrow a couple of relations to help, he was not going until after the cake had been cut at tea time.  
  
Fred's yet another quiet one; apparently that's a trait among Weasley children (the Potters count as Weasleys too). James is the most obvious exception; he'll talk to brick walls if there's nothing else around. In fact I don't know where he is now; probably with the adults. They're less short with him that we are, and he can spend hours relating exaggerated versions of his various adventures to doting uncles and aunts who are too nice to get rid of him.  
  
"Fine," says Fred in his usual quiet voice. "The shops are crazy at this time of year, so every evening is cleaning and restocking, and during the day I have to run in and out of the storeroom fetching stuff. Ooh, and Dad let me help with the window displays for the first time!"  
  
"Really? Cool!" I say. "The Diagon Alley branch?"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
"We're going there sometime this week. Are you going to be there?"  
  
"Apart from Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday morning; Dad's taking me up to the Hogsmeade shop to check stock." He finishes with a groan. "Anyone want to help?"  
  
"Are there staff discounts?" asks Louis. "If so, I am totally in. Have you seen how many relations I have to buy for? Before I even start on school friends."  
  
"What _do_ you give Slytherins for Christmas?" asks Lily, teasing.  
  
"Oh, rare and valuable antiques, dark artefacts, ornate candlesticks made from pure silver and emeralds - and do not think to insult us with cheap ones, because we know the difference and do not take kindly to disrespect! And ancient tomes from which we may learn secrets which have been lost to the centuries, which may aid us in our preparations to enact the Slytherin conspiracy." Louis' voice gets lower as he speaks, more threatening, until he cuts off and asks in a normal voice, "well, Fred?"  
  
Fred starts with surprise. "Well what?"  
  
"Staff discount?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah, Dad'll be fine with it. He doesn't like stock checking any more than I do. But last time he left it to the shop assistants and they ended up running out of every part of the Skiving Snackbox range in the second week of Advent because they were too busy running the stores to check the back rooms and they didn't do it properly. It wasn't so much lost profits as the disappointment of all the customers who'd been counting on being able to pick them up. Dad'll do anything to avoid disappointed customers."  
  
"In that case, I'll help," says Louis.  
  
"Really? Thanks."  
  
"Do you need a couple more?" Lucy asks. "Molly, are you up for it?"  
  
"Hell yeah! Anything to get out of the house! Rose, you want to come too?"  
  
"Um, OK." Rose stammers.  
  
"Hugo?" Molly asks me. I shake my head. There wouldn't be much point in me going; I wouldn't really be any use, I'd just get in the way.  
  
"Where's Roxie?" Lily asks suddenly. Thanks to the three year age gap between her and the second youngest of the cousins (Fred, by a few months - he'll go to Hogwarts with Lily , Lucy, and me), she never seems to quite fit in, which is why it's taken so long for someone to question her absence - she often stays at home when we meet, and this is probably one of those times.  
  
"Nagging Dad to make mince pies, probably. He wanted to stay at home, to work on developing new stock apparently, and she insisted on staying with him. Not that he'll tell us what he's working on at the moment; most of the time he does, but sometimes he keeps it a secret until it's been tested and is ready for release or, if it's food, has passed House Elf testing and is ready for human trials. He always likes to keep a couple of items secret each time he releases a batch of new products, so we get a bit of a surprise at the unveiling."  
  
The annual Weasley's Wizard Wheezes unveiling takes place on the second of January every year (the shop is closed on the first) and is a pretty big event. Uncle George used to just add the new products to the shelves, but the hype over them led him to come up with the idea of the unveiling. Broom-makers have always done it for the release of new models: alerting the press, publicising, sometimes auctioning off the prototypes. It boosts publicity, increasing sales, but the reason Uncle George does it is because he likes big events and the customers enjoy it.  
  
"Come on, tell- what products _do_ you know of?" Lucy asks.  
  
"That's a family secret," Fred says knowingly. "But there _is_ going to be a new range, as well as additions to the Skiving Snackbox and Wonderwitch ranges, and even a couple more muggle tricks." I'm the only one who actually cares about the muggle tricks. They're fun, metal rings and ropes and little puzzles which I can sit on my own and figure out. Uncle George gave me a puzzle last Christmas, one made out of smooth wooden pieces which fitted together in a frame but only if you arranged them correctly. When I eventually managed to get all of the pieces in, with no spaces, it didn't do anything special but I had a sense of pride in it - Mum borrowed it the day I was given it because she wanted to have a go, but she gave up and returned it to me. And I did it without even being able to see it, just by feeling the shapes!  
  
"Dad's talking about expanding. There's are a couple of shops available next door to each other, just a little further down the street. The plan is to buy both, demolish them, and build a larger store. I wouldn't be sorry - organising everything in the current one is a pain, because it's all crammed in. And yes, that adds to the feel of the place, but it's a bit too crowded and practically impossible to navigate while carrying a crate of pygmy puffs in one hand and a box of pygmy puff feed in the other, while the place is crammed with customers in the pre-Christmas rush.  
  
"More change!" says Lily. You know Mum and Dad are working on another house? In a village, where Dad was born... Mum doesn't like living in the city."  
  
"Really?" Molly asks. "When are you moving?"  
  
"Not for a while yet, I don't think. We went to see it the first time, and it was falling down and missing the roof. I haven't been back, but Mum goes there a lot and apparently there are people working on it. Traces of dark magic in the materials mean parts of it have to be removed completely and replaced. And they're thinking about how to make it visible to muggles without them getting suspicious at a sudden appearance, because Mum wants to be able to get to know the neighbours rather than hiding from them."  
  
"It's a nice place," I add. "No traffic, no bitter city smell. Birds everywhere, all kinds, singing and bickering, and wind rustling the trees. The church bells ring every hour to tell people the time." There's more I could say but I stop, knowing that most people don't care about the little things. Hey, I don't listen when other people describe details, unless I have nothing else to do.  
  
"It's going to rain," Rose says suddenly. As soon as she says it, I can feel it, the slight breeze that lifts and rustles dead leaves then vanishes to leave perfect stillness. The calm before the storm. The hairs on my arms prickle with the slight chill, and the birds are silent. Everything is silent except for the adults still gossiping on the patio, then they sense it too and fall silent.  
  
"Quick, cover the food and get it inside!" There's a rush of activity by the house, most of the other kids running up there too. I stand in the middle of the lawn, not because I'm stranded - it's a perfectly flat lawn, and I can hear where the others are to join them - but because this moment is the one I love the most. The moment when the storm breaks.  
  
The first drop hits my cheek, and I ignore it. Another, and another, faster and faster until it's dripping from my hair down my nose. My shirt grips my skin, cold and wet, pushed in by the force of the raindrops. The rumble from the sky seems close, right beside me, a threatening growl warning that it has only just begun.  
  
"Hugo! Come inside! Someone get him..." There's a tug on my arm, which I ignore, standing solid and still as the rain lashes my face with all of its cold power. Sometimes I can feel shut off from the world, from all of the flowers and fluffy white clouds and the colours which everyone else finds beautiful. But rain makes me feel alive, targeting all of my senses, speaking to me in a way that surely normal people cannot imagine.  
  
The thunder growls again, still closer, then someone grabs me and lifts me, carries me back up to te house where everyone waits just inside murmuring softly. I don't struggle, let them dry me off with streams of hot air and listen to the rain, splashing on the patio and booming on the roof, running down the window, dripping from the gutter-  
  
It dies down soon enough, enough to run to the car (I move as slowly as Dad will let me). The windscreen wipers, the wheels splashing in and out of puddles, the patter of rain on leaves, and the occasional grumble from the heavens growing ever more distant until they fade altogether.  
  
We pull into the drive and it's stopped, leaving the world dripping and fresh. The first bird breaks the silence, and others join the joyful chorus.  
  
Sight isn't everything.


	11. Behind the Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How does it feel, to not know what's out there? Not knowing what's inside the mist, not knowing whether it's the same as it was when the mist first came down. No idea whether things are moving out there; or whether they've disappeared completely and the world only consists of what you can see, a tiny island in a sea of nothing."

**Chapter Eleven - Behind the Veil**  
  
   
  
It's not a white Christmas, despite Mum saying she thinks it might be. The air is still, silent, and Mum describes the bank of white mist that seems to hug the ground, how beyond a few metres everything is blank. A wall of white.  
  
"How does it feel?" I ask.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"How does it feel, to not know what's out there? Not knowing what's inside the mist, not knowing whether it's the same as it was when the mist first came down. No idea whether things are moving out there; or whether they've disappeared completely and the world only consists of what you can see, a tiny island in a sea of nothing."  
  
"It's still there, just hidden..." Mum tails off, takes a moment to think. "I see what you mean, but I don't really see it in that way. It's a type of weather, we know why it happens. It's like clouds, but lower, made up of tiny droplets of water. Nothing magical or mysterious."  
  
"How do you know?" I challenge.  
  
"Wha- muggles found out long ago. You must have done it at school..."  
  
"Yes, but what stops it from being both? Made up of tiny droplets of water, like a cloud low to the ground, but also full of magic. You can't see what's happening out there, so for all you know there might be nothing there at all. The only way you can find out is by walking into it, and the passing of the time and the fact that you are walking into it may cause it to change and the world to reappear. Or it might not and you might stand on the edge of nothing. You can't know, because you can't see or hear or feel or smell anything out there."  
  
"Maybe... everything is just a figment of my imagination," Mum says. "All I know is that I exist, because I am thinking. Maybe the mist isn't really there, I'm just imagining it. Maybe this house is a figment of my imagination. Maybe you are too. And maybe my body doesn't really exist, just my mind, and the body is a figment of my imagination. It feels real... but it would."  
  
"For all I know, you're a figment of my imagination, and you're saying these things in my imagination. But, well, it's a good imagination."  
  
She hugs me. "Thanks, Hugo."  
  
"Have you two finished your philosophical discussion?" We spin round to face Dad, who's speaking from the doorway. "It doesn't really bother me if all of this is happening in my imagination, or if I'm only imagining that I'm hungry; if I imagine I'm eating some of that imaginary food, it will get rid of my imaginary hunger. And if it's real hunger then, well, really eating some real food seems like a good idea."  
  
"Well said. Come on then, let's get some breakfast. Hugo, can you make sure your sister's getting up? I'm surprised at her - still in bed on Christmas morning!" I can't help but feel a little satisfaction as I climb the stairs to knock on Rose's door. She helps me a lot, but this time I'm looking after her.  
  
I don't expect any presents from Mum and Dad; as they said, the harp and lessons are my Christmas and birthday presents for about the next five years. I do have a couple, though - a knitted hat and scarf with a raised cable pattern, a packet of socks, and a coat we went out to buy a couple of weeks ago (which Mum told me to pretend I didn't know about).  
  
The morning goes slowly, me forcing myself to be sociable and not go to hide in my room on Christmas morning. I slowly work my way through a bar of Honeydukes chocolate, half a box of coconut ice, and a couple of Ice Mice (they cause my teeth to chatter and squeak, a very odd sensation which makes me decide against eating any more). I might not have got many presents, but I woke up to find my stocking stuffed as full as ever.  
  
Rose gives me a couple of chocolate frogs and some crystallised pineapple (my favourite), and when I've eaten the frogs I give her the cards. I don't collect them so I always let her have mine, on the condition that she reads out the writing.  
  
She reads out the first, about Gaspard Shingleton and his self-stirring cauldron. "The other one's about Dad," she says. One thing about chocolate frog cards: it's very odd finding ones about your parents. Dad loves it. Mum finds it embarrassing. It's like they're writing about someone else, all of these fine words like "hero" and "saviour" and lists of deeds that no one person could ever do, particularly not all within just a few years.  
  
"Go on; read it out!" Dad pleads.  
  
"Just look at this _picture_ ," Rose teases. "Not Dad at all; tall and skinny, spotty face, hardly any grey hairs..."  
  
"I am NOT going grey!"  
  
"Natural part of aging," Mum comforts him, standing up. "We'd better be going. Ron, have you got the presents?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Ron, have you _wrapped_ the presents?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Oh, honestly. _Accio_!" There's some clunking and rustling as several _things_ come flying down the stairs to land on the table. This is followed by more rustling and muffled thumping and they apparently wrap themselves.  
  
"See, I couldn't have done it that neatly- ow!"  
  
Rose leans over to whisper an explanation. "Mum just made one of the bags of presents swing over and hit Dad on the head."  
  
"Right. Fireplace, now. You first, Ron, then Hugo, Rose, and I'll come last. Speak _clearly_."  
  
"We know, Mum," Rose and I chorus, as Dad states his destination and there's a whoosh from the fireplace. Mom throws the floo powder in for me, and I step in. "The Burrow!"  
  
I stumble out at the other end to a chorus of 'Merry Christmas' and strong arms which prevent me from falling. I'm guided away from the fireplace and released once I've found my balance, as a whooshing sound announces another arrival.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Rose! Come along in..."  
  
"Hello, Hugo," says Granny, coming up next to me. "Hold still and I'll get rid of that soot." There's a funny sensation of my clothes shifting slightly, sucked towards her wand then immediately released. "All done - would you like to come through to the kitchen? It'll be crazy in here until everyone's arrived."  
  
As I follow her, I hear Mum greeting all of the other people gathered round. Various uncles and cousins, but I'm not sure which ones are here and which have yet to arrive. I hear Aunt Fleur, her accent unmistakeable, which means Uncle Bill and their three must be here.  
  
The noise fades as we head down the hall, and while the kitchen's not quiet it's certainly less confusing. Pans bubbling, a roast in the oven, all kinds of glorious kitchen smells. Such a medley as you never get anywhere other than the Burrow.  
  
"Come along, sit down. You're looking a bit on the skinny side, but it's probably your age." When Granny doesn't call you skinny, you know you're overweight. "Help yourself to the fudge - I'll put the tin right in front of you here. Mince pies? Go on, help yourself; you're a growing boy, and it's Christmas after all." Ignoring the amount of sugar I've already consumed, I help myself to two mince pies and a handful of fudge. I have to remind myself to leave space for dinner, space I know I'll need because portions at Granny's are always generous.  
  
"So tell me all about what you've been doing. How's school? And what's it like having your sister back for the holidays?" Granny is the sort of person you can tell anything to and she'll listen, making sympathetic remarks or laughing as the story requires. All the while she's busy shifting pans and plates, always busy but also listening.  
  
She gives me a basket of cutlery to carry, and I follow her through to the dining room. "Thanks, Hugo. Can you go and fetch Roxie, please?" I haven't visited the Burrow that often but I can hear where everyone else is and I take it slowly enough not to walk into anything. The conversation dies down a little as I return, probably because it's clear Granny sent me.  
  
"Where's Roxie?" I ask loudly.  
  
There's a lot of shuffling and someone comes hurrying over. "Here!"  
  
"Granny wants you." Everyone else resume talking as the pair of us leave, making our way back to the dining room. When we get there, Granny instructs Roxie on how to lay out the cutlery and she does that as I pass it to her. As we talk, I realise why Granny wanted Roxie - as the youngest of the group, she doesn't really fit in with the cousins. She was probably standing quietly at the edge of the crowd. She makes up for it now that she has an opportunity and an audience.  
  
We go backwards and forwards, back to the kitchen to fetch things then bringing them across so that Granny can arrange them on the table. Roxie and I are plied with more fudge, which we place in our cheeks to suck in order to leave our hands free before discovering that it makes talking hard. I know I'll regret having eaten so much this morning, but it's too late now. Oh well; I can still find room for Christmas dinner, and the pudding, and cake and trifle later. Somehow.  
  
It's a struggle, because Granny doesn't believe that children can be not hungry so ignores requests for small portions. We start the meal by pulling the crackers, donning the silly hats and reading out the jokes from them. I dig my joke paper out of the remainder of the cracker, ready to pass it to someone else to read, and as I take it out I feel the small bumps on the surface. I wonder at first whether they're just decoration, but running my fingers over I know that they're letters.  
  
"Why didn't the ghost go to the ball?" I ask the moment there's a pause.  
  
"He had no body to go with," chorus half a dozen people.  
  
"George! I thought better of you!" exclaims Granny; Uncle George provided the crackers, part of a festive range from the shop. "Couldn't you think of anything _original_?"  
  
Later, when we're scattered through the house and garden just chatting in small groups, someone comes to stand next to me. "Hello, Hugo. It's Uncle George."  
  
"Hi! And thanks."  
  
"What for?" he asks, confused.  
  
"The joke." I explain.  
  
"What? It was horrendous!"  
  
"All of the jokes are horrendous; that's the fun of it. I mean thanks for letting me join in. I've always had to ask someone else to read it before, which ruins the fun. You made it so I could read it."  
  
"Oh. You're welcome. I wondered whether it could really work, whether the little bumps would actually mean anything to you, but I saw you read them once and copied the arrangements carefully from a muggle guide. I wrote the joke in normal writing just in case, but you just picked it up and read it straight off."  
  
"Braille is normal writing. For me and the others at school, anyway. Although to everyone else, I guess it's a kind of secret code. It's kind of cool - we write and read it easily, while everyone else struggles and has to use a guide book. Apart from the teachers and a few other sighted people who can actually read it too, but despite years more practise they aren't as fast as most of our class. I guess because they're too used to using their eyes to trust their fingers."  
  
There's a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, before Uncle George speaks again. "You know, I think you're the only person in this room who isn't bothered by my ear. Even my two, who've grown up with it, can't help but glance at it occasionally."  
  
"Your ear?"  
  
"Well, lack of. It was cursed off during the war."  
  
"Oh. Okay." I try to imagine what it would be like. Is the side of his head smooth and flat where it's been sliced off, as if there had never been anything there? Or is there a hole where it used to be, the edges rough? Or a small bit of flesh left over where the rest is gone? I don't say these ideas out loud because, like most grown-ups, Uncle George would probably find my imagination disturbing.  
  
"Everyone else finds it weird and disgusting, although they don't say it out loud."  
  
"I don't find anything weird and disgusting." I insist. "Does it hurt?"  
  
"It did at the time. Not any more. And... it was only physical pain." I know how to respond - sympathy, curiosity? So I wait for him to carry on. "How's  Rose?"  
  
"Why don't you ask _her_?"  
  
"I'm asking _you_. It's quite normal to be asked about relations, honestly."  
  
"Not usually when they're in the same room."  
  
"She's in the garden, talking to Molly. So not in the same room." He sighs. "I'm trying to make conversation, Hugo."  
  
"She's fine. And this is a boring topic of conversation."  
  
"Change the subject, then," he challenges. "Come up with something interesting..."  
  
"I don't have anything interesting to talk about."  
  
"Then we'll carry on talking about your sister."  
  
"Fine." I rack my brains. "My friend has a dog. He got it in the summer. He's called Benji."  
  
"The dog or the friend?"  
  
"The dog, duh. My friend's called Aidan." I realise as I say it that there's no reason why he might have known that, so it wasn't really obvious. Uncle George carries straight on without comment.  
  
"Aidan... I think you've mentioned him. He's in your class at school, right?"  
  
"Yes." There's a brief silence as Uncle George waits to see if I'm going to say anything else. When I don't, he speaks instead.  
  
"You should come over some time. My plan was always to be everyone's favourite uncle, and I hardly ever see you."  
  
"I never see you."  
  
"The whole wide world of sight-related humour..." He tails off and swallows audibly. "You have to laugh about it, Hugo. If you go through life feeling sorry for yourself, you just spend all of your time being miserable."  
  
"You're not laughing. You're miserable."  
  
"My entire business is built on jokes!" he protests. "I invent things to make people smile!"  
  
"You're still miserable. You want to make other people smile, but you're not doing it yourself. Don't tell me not to feel sorry for myself without trying it for yourself first. You've only lost one ear; you can still hear."  
  
"The ear doesn't bother me in the slightest, except when it scares people."  
  
"Mum and Dad have told me some stories about all the things you did at school: letting fireworks off, organising the best parties, turning a corridor into a swamp, and summoning your brooms to fly out of the castle right under the nose of some toad woman. You don't do more than making toys, now. You used to be awesome, you and-" Realisation hits. "Oh."  
  
"It took me three years to get back to inventing. Three years of staring into the fire, just about doing enough to keep the shop running. It was paperwork and finances, that's all I could bring myself to do. Inventing things- was something we did together. One day, I received a letter from a little boy saying he loved my shop and he always came here when he got his pocket money, and had I ever considered making a quill which seemed normal at first but jumped out of your hand when you dipped it in the ink? It wasn't hard, I decided, not really inventing as the idea wasn't mine. I made it and wrote back asking the little boy to come and see me, and I actually went into the shop at a time when it was open - before that, I only went to drop things off, and only when it was closed. And I saw the customers.  
  
"They all loved the shop so much, all of the things Fred and I had created. The little boy arrived and I invited him through into my office. I showed him the quill and the packaging with his name on it next to mine, and he was so proud of it. Then he started asking me about all of the unfinished experimental models around the room, and he was so enthusiastic that the moment he left I looked around and decided that they shouldn't just sit there any more. There were days when I couldn't face inventing on my own, tinkering in silence in the office, but I got used to it and new products started making their way onto the shelves. Later I met Angie, and that helped too, especially when we got married and had Fred. I'm still miserable, I know, but I'm less miserable than I used to be. I can dress up and go out into the shop, speak to the customers, put a smile on my face and be the George Weasley they always imagined. For years I couldn't do that. I got involved in the shop again, kept it moving, opened the store in Hogsmede and started inventing properly so we could do release day - you're coming to the next release day, aren't you?"  
  
"We always do. Are there going to be more fireworks?"  
  
"Of course! That's why we do it in the evening in winter."  
  
"Of course. OK. I guess people like them." I try not to sound too unenthusiastic.  
  
"You don't like them..?"  
  
"Loud bangs from somewhere overhead, whistling things whizzing around, acrid smoke, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and weird disconnected noises. It's not my favourite section."  
  
"I suppose it wouldn't be." There's an awkward pause. "There'll be music, though, and of course the products. The whole thing's good fun."  
  
"I don't really like big events. Too many people."  
  
"People are interesting!" he exclaims. "That's the best thing about my job: speaking to people, making them laugh, putting smiles on their faces. And all of the different characters who walk into the shop in search of something or other. Not just prospective teenage pranksters, but grandparents and six-year-olds. The grandparents are often the most interesting; some are just looking for gift or for something to do with their grandchildren when they come to visit, others have spouses or carers or flat-mates to play tricks on. They're hobbling around leaning on their walking sticks, and the moment they step into the shop you see that little devilish spark and their inner child comes out."  
  
"People are interesting on their own. Just not in big groups, when they're all around and I don't know anything about them except for the little snippets of conversation I can pick up and whether they've showered recently."  
  
"True. Talking to one person is better than shaking hands with a hundred. Even if they're the most boring person on Earth."  
  
"Uncle Percy," I whisper under my breath.  
  
"Indeed," he says, and I flush because I didn't expect anyone to hear it. Especially not a grown-up, even Uncle George. "Although honestly, I've met worse. There was this guy who..."  
  
"Time to cut the cake!" calls Granddad, and there's a rush of activity as everyone hurries through to the dining room. I wait for them to go, to avoid getting in the way, then when they've passed I turn to follow.  
  
"After you," says a voice from behind me, and I realise that Uncle George is still here too.  
  
"It's fine, you go ahead; I'll only slow you down."  
  
"Don't worry, I'd rather wander slowly along with you than stand in a line waiting for my slice. With any luck we'll get there and a couple of plates will be sitting on the table waiting for us, no need for queuing or barging through crowds."  
  
We don't quite leave it that long, but it's only a short wait before Uncle George presses a small plate into my hand. I pick the cake apart, starting with the actual fruit cake bit. It's rich, packed with fruit, the odd cherry which I savour especially. The I move on to removing the icing from the marzipan. It comes away in solid sections which I can crunch between my teeth but which melt after just a couple of seconds in my mouth. It's basically pure sugar, but made to stick together.  
  
I always leave the best until last. Putting my plate down on the table, I gather all of the marzipan together in a little ball then lick my finger and wipe it round the plate to pick up the crumbs. The marzipan ball I fiddle with for a bit, squishing it together properly. Slightly granular, soft and squishy.  
  
"Stop messing with your food, Hugo," Mum says on her way past. I ignore it, picking off a little bit of the marzipan at a time to make it last as long as possible. It doesn't take long for me to get bored, though, and I just shove the remainder into my mouth.  
  
Uncle George teaches me how to use the nutcracker, patiently helping me set each nut between the jaws and how to squeeze it shut with one hand while keeping the other around the nut to prevent it from flying out (either in one piece or in bits). It's not too hard to sort through each handful of shattered nut, picking the edible part out from among the shards of hard shell. Walnuts are hardest, breaking into small pieces and getting trapped in the remainders of the cases. They're pretty bitter too, so after managing a couple (to prove I can do it) I stick to the easier varieties.  
  
"Have an almond," Uncle George says, and I catch the twinkle in his voice. Nothing seems suspicious about the nut he passes me, but when I try to crack it I feel the handles of the nutcracker bending. The almond slips, escaping the jaws, and I put it back to try again.  
  
"Is this even a nut?" I ask after several unsuccessful attempts.  
  
"Yes, it's an almond."  
  
"It doesn't crack. I reckon there's some other way of doing it that you're not telling me."  
  
"Honestly, there isn't!"  
  
"Prove it." I pass him the almond and nutcracker, and there's a cracking sound. He presses something into my hand, and I eat it. "You used magic."  
  
"Did not! I did it properly."  
  
"Don't believe you. You definitely used magic."  
  
"Charlie!" Uncle George calls out.  
  
"Yeah?" Uncle Charlie calls back.  
  
"Tell Hugo I didn't use magic to crack the almond. He doesn't believe me."  
  
"I wasn't looking. But seriously, you use a nutcracker? I bet you I can do it without - and without magic, too..."  
  
"Go on then."  
  
"...and I bet you can't, little brother!"  
  
"Yeah? Bring it on!"  
  
The next hour is spent wandering round the house following the pair as they both do their best to crack their almonds. They have some pretty inventive methods, once they've decided they can't do it with their hands, I must admit - jumping on them fails, so they take their brooms to drop the nuts onto a hard pavement from fifty feet up (Uncle Charlie's misses and hits the grass, apparently, so he has to try again). Then there's a lot of banging with various kinds of implements, then while Uncle Charlie chisels at his with a knife Uncle George puts his under one foot of a sofa and gets as many people as possible to pile on.  
  
"If that didn't work, how do you expect me to believe you did the other one with just the nutcracker?" I ask cheekily.  
  
"This," he replies, "is an especially stiff one."  
  
They still haven't managed to crack either of them by the time I leave.


	12. Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a tap on my door, and I roll over to scream, "Go away!" Whoever it is doesn't, but opens the door and steps just inside. "Go away go away go away..." tears prick at my eyes, betraying me. There's no reason why I should be crying! The only thing my stupid eyes are any good for is betraying me.

**Chapter Twelve - Parents**  
  
   
  
A week later, we sit in the living room with _Fantastic Beasts Up Close_ on the TV. Luna's gentle murmur fills the room, soothing. "...and there it is; you see it, just peering from the mouth of the cave? I've never seen a yeti so close up before. You know, most people think they're vicious, but in fact they're really timid; they're dangerous, of course, but they only attack if they feel threatened - unless they're hunting. It's very rare - although not unheard of - for them to consider a human prey. Now you see how she's sniffing the air? She's checking that it's safe to come out- apparently it's not, as she's gone back inside except - she's coming back again and... two children! Now this is a sight I've certainly never seen, a mother yeti showing her young the world for the first time..."  
  
"It's snowing!" calls Rose suddenly, drowning out the TV for a moment.  
  
"...she'll teach them to navigate the mountain, to check for danger, and to hunt..."  
  
"It is!" Mum goes to join Rose. "Heavily, too- it's settling on the bench, see?"  
  
"...and when they are old enough, they will leave of their own accord..."  
  
"Do you think it'll settle overnight?" Rose asks eagerly.  
  
"Probably. Why don't we go for a walk now, while it's falling? It's most beautiful at night, and by tomorrow evening it certainly won't be fresh!"  
  
"I'm trying to listen to the TV," I interrupt, "even if you're not. What's so interesting about frozen water?"  
  
"...she's coming closer! Now we're ready to apparate away at a moment's notice. As I said, they won't attack unless they feel threatened, but they are easily frightened especially when they have young to protect. She's close enough that we can see the claws, smooth and sharp and very strong. She uses them to help her grip smooth ice, especially in high winds, as well as for hunting and self-protection..."  
  
"It's only a TV program. It'll be repeated later in the week. Come on, just a short walk round the park."  
  
"I'M LISTENING TO THIS," I shout angrily, folding my arms and hunkering down on the sofa.  
  
"Hugo!" Mum scolds. "It's only a TV program. You clearly need some fresh air."  
  
"NO!" The TV falls silent suddenly; Mum must have switched it off. I stand up and stomp out of the room. I throw myself down on the bed and just lie there, still angry. It's alright for them; they can gush about their stupid snow, how pretty it is. The only way I can enjoy things like that is through descriptions, and the presenter on _Fantastic Beasts Up Clos_ e - Loony, or whatever her name is - is actually good at describing things. Not like Mum and Rose, who prefer to just gush.  
  
There's a tap on my door, and I roll over to scream, "Go away!" Whoever it is doesn't, but opens the door and steps just inside. "Go away go away go away..." tears prick at my eyes, betraying me. There's no reason why I should be crying! The only thing my stupid eyes are any good for is betraying me.  
  
"Hugo!" It's Dad. At least I can talk to him and he'll listen, unlike Mum. She'd be too convinced I was being unreasonable. "Hugo, calm down! We just thought..."  
  
"I don't care."  
  
"I can't do anything unless you tell..."  
  
"I don't care."  
  
"We want..."  
  
"I DON'T CARE." I roll over, turning my back on him. I'm not interested in talking or in his stupid excuses. Mum couldn't even face coming to talk to me herself; she just made Dad come.  
  
And he doesn't even carry on arguing, just stands there helplessly, silent for so long I think he's left. "We're going for a walk, are you..."  
  
"NO! GO AWAY!" Mum would stay, keep talking until I calmed down, but Dad just does as I say and leaves. His footsteps go heavily down the stairs, then lighter ones come up. I lie still, shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep.  
  
"Hugo?" No response. "Stop being silly, Hugo." _I'm_ being silly? I wasn't making a fuss over some frozen water. I wasn't trying to force anyone to go out when they didn't want to. I didn't make them stop doing something they were enjoying. Mum keeps trying to talk to me, but when I don't respond she gives up and falls silent. Has she gone, quietly? As time passes without a sound, I become more sure that she has. Downstairs, the front door opens and closes. It's unlike them to leave me alone, but they were only planning on going round the park. And maybe Dad's sitting downstairs; he wouldn't object to staying in.  
  
When I'm sure Mum's not here any more, I start to hum to myself, a little tune that's just popped into my head. The air's pretty cold, so I wriggle under my duvet. It's more comfortable that way, too, hugging it round me and humming to myself. I start to wonder whether I should have gone for that walk; snow is only frozen water, but it's a fancy kind of frozen water. Oh well, it should still be there in the morning.  
  
"Are you going to talk to me now?" asks Mum from the doorway. I haven't heard anyone come in or climb the stairs, suggesting she never left. She's been standing in the corner all this time.  
  
"It's not fair, sneaking around watching me," I complain.  
  
"I wasn't sneaking. I've been sitting on your desk chair the whole time." My desk chair... my desk! I was making up little poems earlier and I left them on the desk! I climb out of bed quickly (and slightly reluctantly, knowing it'll take a while to get back to the same level of comfort), cross the room, gather up the papers, and stuff them in the drawer with my stories. I'll be able to hear if Mum opens it. "I haven't been reading them," she protests.  
  
I sit on the bed and swing my legs, waiting for Mum to say what she's thinking. She doesn't, and nor do I. It's a long silence. I stand up in the end and leave the room, walking across the landing. Mum stands up and follows me slowly. "What?" I snap. "I'm going to the toilet."  
  
"Please don't snap at me," she says quietly. Calm, not at all angry. I shove down the tiny prickle of guilt and lock the bathroom door behind me.  
  
"You still there?" I ask when I come out.  
  
"Yes."  
  
 I go back into my room and throw myself back onto the bed. Are we going to have another long silence? Despite the way I shouted at her, Mum hasn't gotten angry. She's so calm, just waiting, too patient. Maybe I should just have accepted it, gone for that stupid walk. It wasn't really worth the argument. But then it wasn't fair for her to stop me doing something I was enjoying because Rose was excited about something else. Just because she's going back to Hogwarts soon, and because she's apparently lonely, it doesn't mean that she should get everything her own way.  
  
"Do you want to go and get some supper?" Mum asks softly. What? She's been sitting there all this time, just waiting to suggest I have supper?  
  
"Um... Mmm-hmm." We go downstairs and I pour myself a mug of milk, digging around for the biscuit tin and picking out a cookie (Rose made them, because she was bored). Rose and Dad haven't come back yet, I realise. "Do you want to go for a walk in the snow?" I ask guiltily; she was going to, before I stormed off and she decided to stay with me.  
  
"Do you want to?"  
  
"I don't mind." I don't really want to, but I don't want her to miss out.  
  
"I was thinking of going on my own, when Rose and your Dad get back. I- feel like I need some time on my own to think. I remember going with Harry to his parents' graves; everything was covered in snow then. It made it all seem so peaceful, so beautiful, so pure. I'm going to see... to see my parents."  
  
She takes a shuddering breath. "I never told you what happened to my parents, did I? They'd have been your grandma and grandpa, but..." she pauses, struggling to say the words, "I tried to save them, when I went off with Ron and Harry. I cast a memory charm so they wouldn't remember me, made it seem like they were just muggles. They were supposed to go to Australia, so they would be safe. The Death Eaters killed a lot of muggles, just for fun, and- Mum and Dad were due to fly out the following morning. They'd have been safe. But by some fluke they got targeted that night and killed by Death Eaters, for fun. They died not knowing that they had a daughter, and I never knew what happened until two weeks after the final battle, when I started looking for them."  
  
"I thought they were safe, you see. I took the time to recover a little, to get over everything that happened that year. Then I started looking for anything that might help me track them down, and I was shown two death certificates. Everything I'd done to protect them from being used against me, it had been enough, the Death Eaters never realised that they were my parents. They were killed because they were muggles and the Death Eaters just happened to pick them that night, to pick them, at random, out of all the muggles in the entire country."  
  
I don't really have anything to say to that, so I don't say anything. Mum sinks heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, and it creaks as it takes her weight. "For whatever reason, I've been thinking of it a lot recently. Thinking I haven't been to see them for a while."  
  
"Do you _want_ to go on your own? Would you prefer it that way?"  
  
"I... think..."  
  
"I'll come with you," I say, knowing that if she's on her own she won't have anything else to distract her, only her own thoughts. I know the dangers of being on your own when your miserable - blaming yourself for something, then piling on more and more guilt until you cave under the weight. Having someone else around breaks it up, stops you from dwelling on it as much.  
  
She stands up. "Thanks, Hugo. Shall we go now?"  
  
In fact it takes a little while for her to wrap me up in far too many layers. My new coat, hat, and scarf; thick waterproof trousers; a warming spell on everything, especially my face; fur-lined mittens; and wellies with thick socks inside. I stand there while she puts her own coat and boots on, wondering whether me getting heatstroke is really a justifiable alternative to me freezing to death. Not that it's all that cold outside anyway; I'm probably in more danger of temperature-related health issues now than I would be going out completely naked! (Not that I'd try that, obviously.)  
  
"What about Dad and Rose?" I ask as she takes my arm to apparate.  
  
"They'll guess we've gone out together. Ready?"  
  
"Mmm-hmm." She's yanked upwards away from me, but the firm grip means I'm pulled up too, into the tight compression that is apparation. We come down outside, the cold air teasing at the warming charm on my nose. It's strangely silent, more than a normal winter's night, sound deadened. I guess that the snow's still falling, although I can't feel it or anything.  
  
Our footsteps are muffled by grass, as Mum leads me on a route she's obviously taken many times before. Then she stops and releases me, taking a couple more steps herself and flopping to the ground. I swing my arms slowly around me, trying to see whether there's anything nearby. The smooth papery bark of a tree. I sit down at its base, my back against the trunk, and wait for Mum to take as long as she needs.  
  
I pull one mitten off, unable to stand being trapped inside this cocoon of warmth when it means I can't tell what's going on around. I guess being under a tree keeps most of the snow off, although the grass around is cold and wet. There's the odd soft _thump_ when a lump of snow falls from the branches above, and the eerie muffled sound of the church bells announcing that it's nine o'clock. I thought it was later, but I count the bongs carefully and there are definitely only nine. That's the only sound in the stillness, apart from the lumps of snow falling from the branches.  
  
"I spent so little time with them," Mum says suddenly, her voice cutting through the blanket of silence. "After I went to Hogwarts, I mean. I went off to boarding school and I didn't even go home every holiday. I spent months at a time communicating only through letters, and when I was at home I spent so much time reading and doing homework in my room. They were delighted with me being a witch - especially once they'd gotten over the shock - but it meant I was away from home most of the time. They never complained, never commented, never protested when I said I was going to spend the Christmas or Easter holidays at school instead of coming home to see them."  
  
I want to say more than just "Mmm-hmm," but I can't think of something so I don't say anything at all. I don't know what she needs - sympathy? Distractions? Or just someone to say these things to, rather than just keeping them inside?  
  
"Come on," she says abruptly. "It's late and too cold to hang around." We don't apparate immediately, though, but carry on through the graveyard. No longer under the shelter of the tree, a fine layer of snow crunches under my wellies and makes the path slippery. Suddenly I bend down and gather from a wide area enough snow to form a small ball. I lob it at Mum, who's close enough that I can tell exactly where she is.  
  
"You cheeky monkey..." A wad of snow burst on my shoulder, spraying little bits onto my face. A small piece slips under my collar, and I wriggle at the cold tickle until it melts and soaks into my shirt (it was only a small piece of snow, not enough that the wetness is noticeable). I make another snowball to retaliate.  
  
"Hugo!" Mum asks suddenly. "Where's your mitten?" I check my pockets, where I might have stuffed it. Not there; I must have dropped it, or left it under the tree.  
  
"I took it off when I was under the tree," I say. I have to admit that the fingers on that hand do feel a little bit chilled from handling the snow.  
  
"Well, at least that's not too far to look. Wait here and I'll get it." I stand where I am, as the snow melts on and dampens my face. A stray bit of fringe, escaped from my hat, is plastered to my forehead. My remaining mitten is caked with snow, making it stiff.  
  
"Here it is," Mum says, seizing my arm and shoving my hand into the furry lining. "Now keep it on until we get home!"  
  
" _Alright_ , Mum."  
  
We get home to find that, as expected, Rose and Dad are already back,. "Hot chocolate?" asks Dad the moment we appear with a crack in the hall.  
  
"Wha- yes, please."  
  
"I wouldn't say no," Mum says. "Urgh - stand still, Hugo, so I can get the snow off your boots before it gets everywhere. _Evanesco!_ Now you can take them off."  
  
I peel my mittens off first, then my hat and scarf. They're all caked with snow, and soaking wet where the snow's started to melt. I take my boots off, and the thick socks, wriggling my toes. Despite the warming charms, and despite the fact it wasn't all that cold, they're frozen.  
  
Mum tells me to dump the things in a pile, so I do; she or Dad will go through and dry them by magic before putting them away. We take the hot chocolate into the living room, where we discover that Dad's lit a fire in the fireplace; usually we only use it for accessing the floo network, but in winter it's nice to have a normal fire there. I listen to it crackling, the odd snap like a gun going off (but quieter), the sound of the metal mesh of the fireguard adjusting to the temperature change. Every now and then it seems to collapse, fuel crumbling dryly and slipping slightly.  
  
The fire warms me outside, and when I've blown on the hot chocolate enough that I can drink it without burning my tongue that warms me inside as well. Mum doesn't talk, although Dad and Rose chat mindlessly about things like sledging and snowball fights.  
  
"We should get together with the cousins," she suggests. "It's more fun with more people." I'd most like to meet my friends from school; it would be great fun, inventing games which we could play in the snow; but school doesn't start again until next Tuesday.  
  
"We can arrange it in the morning. No point in getting your hopes up; it might rain and wash it away, or it might not be as thick as you expect. You don't want to make plans and then be disappointed. It's also gone half past ten, so get to bed!"  
  
It's quiet when I wake up. Only the occasional vehicle makes its way slowly along the high street a couple of roads away, not the usual constant stream. Then a  bird trills throatily: a robin. I pad softly to the window and press my hand against the cold glass. I can't know for sure, but I'd be surprised if the world wasn't completely blanketed.  
  
I dress in my Christmas jumper - it's the warmest thing I own, and really comfy, even if everyone else moans about theirs - and go downstairs, my socked feet making barely a sound on the carpet. Apparently I'm the first one to wake up. I head to the kitchen then change my mind, turning towards the front door. The key's on the hook next to it, as I remember because Mum says we need to know in case there's a fire. The intruder alarms don't go off it you use the key, and I wriggle it into the lock before turning it gently clockwise. The mechanism clicks, and I can open the door.  
  
It's not that cold really. I take the key out of the lock and pocket it, just in case the door swings shut or something. I step down onto the top step and my foot crunches down, compressing crystals and making them crackle slightly. Once I'm standing right outside, I bend down and push my hand into the snow until I reach the concrete of the stop, to find out how deep it is. It reaches to the middle of my palm - about four inches, probably. That's a lot of snow, especially for just overnight.  
  
I pull the door shut behind me so that I don't let a draft into the house (I have the front door key, after all) and move carefully down the steps, sinking my toes through the surface of the snow with each footstep. It clings to my socks, making them damp, and they begin to tingle with cold. I don't like shoes; they make it harder to tell what's under your feet, although they can be really useful to protect me from stepping on sharp things and from stubbing my toes. But they mean that I can't grip the ground as well. I don't like to block my senses.  
  
I sit down on the bottom step, again crunching the crystals together. It's like a completely different world, everything ice cold and covered with soft snow, the ground not solid or hard but allowing me to sink through the surface. My world, the usual world, is under there somewhere.  
  
"Hugo! What are you doing?" I stand up quickly, brushing the snow from the seat of my trousers as I turn. My toes are numb, but I'm not too bothered. "Come on- get inside! What are you doing out there without a coat... without shoes!" I start to climb back up the steps, and halfway up Mum seizes my arm. I shake her off instantly, just because if she tries to rush me I'm more likely to stumble.  
  
Once I'm inside, Mum shuts the door and in silence sits me down in the kitchen. A jet of warm air, starting with my toes and fingers, leaves my clothes crisp and dry. My toes begin to tingle as the heat rushes back, slightly painful but nothing I'm going to complain about. Mum would only say it was my own fault, anyway.  
  
It's not until I'm warm and dry again that she finally speaks and when she does she doesn't sound angry but frightened. "What were you doing out there?"  
  
"Sitting in the snow."  
  
"I know that! Why? And why didn't you at least put a pair of shoes and a coat on first?"  
  
"I wanted to feel the snow crunching under my feet. I was curious."  
  
"You could have..."  
  
"Could have what? Died? It's cold, but not that cold, and you'd have been down in time. Gotten frostbite? Again, I wasn't there for that long. I know you'd be down before long, to remind me to come in if I forgot. I had the front door key in my pocket, so I could get back in again." I feel like I need to justify it. "I was curious. It snowed last year but I had that bug so I couldn't go out in it. The year before, there was only a thin layer. And before that is too long ago to remember properly. It's fine for you; you just look out of the window and exclaim at how beautiful it is, how white and pure and like the perfect Christmas card. Listening to people talking about doesn't really tell me what it's like, what makes it different to normal ice. Doesn't tell me it's fluffy and crunchy and clings together in clumps."  
  
"Don't do it again. Promise me."  
  
We're interrupted by Rose hurtling down the stairs. "Can I go outside, Mum? Please?"  
  
"You haven't had breakfast yet!"  
  
"I can have breakfast later. I want to build a snowman!"  
  
"Alright, you can go and start. But no complaining when I call you in! I'm going to make porridge." Rose starts to run for the door, and Mum has to call after her. "Coat, hat, and gloves, don't forget!"  
  
I leave the room while she's preoccupied under the pretence of going to the toilet - which I do, before going to sit in the living room. I don't want to promise to not leave the house like that, because I want to be able to step out and feel the weather. I like standing outside when it's raining, so I can feel it pushing against me and running from my fringe down my face. And snow's interesting too, and wind. I like to be able to feel the power of nature for myself, not just hear about it from other people. I can't do that when I'm trussed up in so many layers I can barely move.  
  
Still, I'll put up with winter clothes later so I can join the cousins. Maybe we can build an igloo, a really big one we can all fit into. That would be pretty cool. And snowmen to guard the entrance, and maybe lots of rooms like a big house. And a snow table, and snow chairs and beds. So long as it's somewhere away from muggles, the grown-ups can use magic to help. We might even be allowed to sleep in it overnight, with extra insulation charms and stuff to make sure we don't get too cold! After all, Eskimos do.


	13. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come on, Dom! Hurry _up _!" I run with the others, my hand in Lily's. It's easy to tell where everyone else is; there's shouting and squealing as snowballs fly. We're the only ones here, on some remote hill where muggles never come (Mum has apparently cast muggle-repelling charms just in case). Apparently it's the perfect place for everything snow-related: nice long slopes for tobogganing, and a big flat area on top for snowball fights and igloo building and snowmen.__

**Chapter Thirteen - Hot and Cold**  
  
   
  
"Come on, Dom! Hurry _up_!" I run with the others, my hand in Lily's. It's easy to tell where everyone else is; there's shouting and squealing as snowballs fly. We're the only ones here, on some remote hill where muggles never come (Mum has apparently cast muggle-repelling charms just in case). Apparently it's the perfect place for everything snow-related: nice long slopes for tobogganing, and a big flat area on top for snowball fights and igloo building and snowmen.  
  
We've got a load of big sledges, and Lily directs me to one and sits in front of me. I grip her waist and we both shove off, forcing the sledge through the thick snow in the hope that it'll set off of its own accord when we reach a steep enough slope. It keeps on sticking, drifts piling up in front of it, and disappointed we stand up and step clear.  
  
"The snow's too soft!" calls Molly, who's apparently been having the same struggle as we have.  
  
"That's a shame," Mum calls back. "I suppose you'll have to do something else."  
  
"Let's make an igloo!" I yell immediately. "A really big one! And the grown-ups can use magic to help!"  
  
It turns out igloo-building is a slow process. Packing together bricks, hoping they don't fall apart when we move them, going round and around our ambitious-sized circle piling layer upon layer without it making much difference. I don't notice people drifting away at first, only when I hear a group chattering a little way away.  
  
"So who's still here?" I ask, slightly frustrated by the combination of them leaving us to do the igloo on our own and the fact that I didn't know they'd gone until I heard them over there.  
  
It turns out most of the grown-ups are still helping, along with Lily, Fred, Lucy, and Roxanne. A reasonable sized group, I suppose, but not really enough for the hopeless task we've set ourselves. And I realise that it won't be long before the walls get too high for us to reach and put more bricks on. Oh well, the grown-ups will be able to levitate them up.  
  
We work for a bit longer before Mum stops us. "Go on; take a break and do some tobogganing. We'll carry on with this."  
  
"But the sledges won't..."  
  
"Try it." I want to carry on with the igloo, not give up and make the grown-ups do it by themselves, but I hear the twinkle in Mum's voice and have to find out what she's done. And we find out the moment Lily and I settle ourselves back on the sledge and push off. The snow's hard and slippery now, so we fly downwards, accelerating faster and faster, strands of Lily's hair being blown into my face.  
  
At the bottom, once the sledge has ploughed into a snow-covered hedge and stopped, we're faced with a problem. The usual disadvantage of tobogganing: getting back up the hill. And it's worse than usual because Mum's spell has made the slope really slippery, perfect for sledging but virtually impossible to climb without your foot sliding every few steps. Plus it's a really big hill, meaning that you can get up to high speeds and have a good long ride, but also meaning that it's a long way back up.  
  
Lily leads me across the level a bit before starting to climb, and it's immediately obvious why: the spell is only across the main slope, and here the snow is still soft. While it's tough going, dragging the sledge through the drifts and lifting our feet clear of the extra weight to take each step, at least it's _possible_ to climb here.  
  
"How did they do it?" Lily exclaims when we reach the top. I stop momentarily, confused. "The igloo, Hugo! They finished the main dome!"  
  
"Well it did take us a pretty long time to get back up the hill..." Okay, not that long. To be honest, it's pretty obvious how they did it: "Magic."  
  
"Oh. Yeah, I guess."  
  
"Had a good run?" Uncle George asks when we draw up to the grown-ups. "I hope you don't mind us finishing it off... there wouldn't have been enough snow to do it normally, for a start!"  
  
"It's alright... we can make little chambers on the side, like a huge igloo-house. Lily, where's the door?"  
  
"Um, Mum?" Lily asks after a second. "Where _is_ the door?"  
  
"Well the traditional construction of an igloo is to build the dome and then to cut out the doorway afterwards. We thought we'd let you decide where you want the doorway."  
  
"Mark it out and I'll cut it," Uncle Bill adds.  
  
I pause to see if Lily's going to do it, but she steers me forwards. "You do it, Hugo."  
  
"Won't it be wonky and the wrong shape?"  
  
"We can straighten it up. Just decide where you want it. You came up with the idea, after all." I think for a minute, then lick my finger and hold it up to test the wind. We want the door on the sheltered side, obviously, otherwise the wind would go straight in and make it cold. I crouch and scrape out an outline, then straighten up and step out of the way so one of the grown-ups can come and cut it out.  
  
" _Diffindo_ ," says Uncle Bill, and there's a sort of sizzling sound from where I marked the doorway. "There you go!"  
  
Crawling through the soft snow, I wriggle through the doorway. It's not tight for me, but I'm pretty small so it probably will be for some of the others. Inside, it's surprisingly warm. I move right in before cautiously straightening up. I raise an arm to try to find the roof and touch the wall sloping up behind me. A few steps further and I can't touch it at all. I realise just how huge this is, what we've created.  
  
Some of the others come inside - Lily, of course, plus Roxie and Fred. Molly and Lucy join us a few minutes later, still out of breath from slogging back up the sledging hill. The most popular reaction upon entering is "wow". There's room for us all to fit inside, comfortably, and to move around. And after a minute of being impressed, we're back to work.  
  
Lily goes in and out, filling the smallest sledge with snow from outside and dumping it in here for us (the doorway is just about big enough). Fred and I pack it into the cracks in the walls, making them smooth, and when Lily's brought enough snow in she joins us. Molly directs Lucy and Roxie in building a short tunnel outside the door like a proper igloo, and when they eventually finish that they join us inside. It still takes a while to pack all of the cracks (at least all that we can reach), but when we've finished the walls feel hard and only slightly bumpy. No deep cracks between bricks, anyway.  
  
"Come out and I'll make you a nice floor," Mum offers from the doorway. When we go back in again, it's made up of smooth compacted snow which doesn't get ruined by us moving around on it.  
  
"It's all white," says Lily to me quietly. "and the joints between the bricks glow with the light from outside. The floor is like ice, but not as smooth - so we can move on it without sliding. It's pretty bright considering there's only the door and the little bit of light shining through the snow, probably because it's white and white reflects light." The she adds in an awed voice, "Aunt Angie just came in and made little spheres of light hover near the roof. And the light changes colour!"  
  
"Look at this, Harry! All we need is a bar and some drinks..." Dad's joined us inside now, and I realise that however large this place is it probably doesn't have room for the whole extended family. Not particularly comfortably, anyway.  
  
Mum is right behind him. "Ronald Weasley!"  
  
"And we wouldn't have a shortage of ice. We could build the bar and dig out holes for the bottles to keep them cold."  
  
"Perhaps if we come back later, once the children are safely tucked up in bed," Aunt Ginny suggests calmly. "I don't think Percy would be too happy if we exposed his girls to that." Uncle Percy isn't here; apparently someone in his position must be there to help the Ministry cope with situations such as this with minimum disruption - although the only disruption is people taking the day off to play with children or help muggle relatives; not like the entire muggle world, which grinds to a halt at the first flake due to the fact that people apparently can't get anywhere. Dad and Uncle Harry will be going in later, Uncle George left about mid-morning and will be back in a few hours, and there are other grown-ups missing too.  
  
"I don't think that's anything strange. I'm with Percy on this one - keep the firewhiskey in the bottle until the children are at home." Mum speaks firmly. They don't protest really, just pretend that they think she's a spoilsport. It's all good-natured.  
  
Lily and I go for a couple more runs on the sledge before our legs get tired from slogging up the hill and we can't face doing it again. We sit inside the igloo to take a break, leaning against the packed snow wall as our bottoms slowly grow numb from the ice floor. The air is warm-ish, but obviously the snow itself isn't.  
  
Fred and Roxie leave first, along with Aunt Angie, then Uncle Bill takes his three (Aunt Fleur's another of the adults stuck at work), and agrees to drop Molly and Lucy home for lunch and pick them up later. It's boring now, just the five of us (including Al, who's gone off to do his own thing so barely counts) plus our parents, so none of us object when Aunt Ginny suggests going home to eat and warm up. Then she invites us to Grimmauld Place, so we apparate there and are greeted by a very hyperactive Snuffles.  
  
"I couldn't bring him because we were apparating, and you know the laws about apparating with animals..."  
  
"Of course," Mum says calmly. "Would you like me to help you with anything?"  
  
"Please..." They drift off into the kitchen as Snuffles jumps up and plants his front paws on my stomach.  
  
"Let's take this dog for a run round the park," Uncle Harry suggests, and leaving Al (who's vanished in the direction of his room) and Rose (who went with Mum and Aunt Ginny), we head straight back outside again. The city air is warmer than on the hill, and cars move slowly through the slush that is all that's left of the snow. Snuffles runs backwards and forwards, the tag on his collar jingling as his feet make the snow spray up. In the park he's let off the leash and immediately skitters forward, barking excitedly and shaking himself – the result of a combination of having been stuck inside all morning, this exciting new change in the world, and the fact that he's Snuffles.  
  
We go back into the house through the kitchen door, and Snuffles has to stand on the doorstep until Uncle Harry's dried him off. Then he trots happily across the room and buries his head in the water bowl, and I hear him lapping enthusiastically. Despite the exercise he's just had, he still seems to have plenty of energy. Although perhaps not as much as before, as he's happy to pad to his basket and settle there.  
  
One very hot bowl of soup later, my tongue is slightly burnt and I've regained my energy. Not quite as fresh as this morning, perhaps, but I'm no longer inclined to just sit there listening to other people talking. Bowls and glasses clink together, splashing in and out of water and being scrubbed by a bristled brush before flying back to their places, and then once everything's clean and tide we're ready to go out again.  
  
Fred and Roxie are already there when we arrive, impatiently calling for a snowball fight. And the rest of the cousins aren't much later, so soon the snowballs are flying. I join in, at first, deciding my aim by the positioning of the shouts and squeals, but it's unsatisfying when you don't even know whether you've hit anyone or not.  
  
It's not like I'm dodging or anything, but I don't get hit at all. Bad aim, I tell myself at first, but there's no way anyone could be that lucky. They're just not aiming at me. There's a difference between not being hit and not being aimed at - if no-one aims at you, it's because they think it would be unfair. Because you wouldn't be able to avoid it. And even if I can't see them coming and dodge, it would be nice for them to treat me like I could.  
  
Alright, I would probably find it almost as frustrating to keep getting hit. But then at least I'd be properly involved in the game, not just the little blind boy running around with the normal kids and trying to be like them.  
  
I back out of the game and walk with arms outstretched along the top of the hill until my fingers meet the solid wall of the igloo. I can hear the voices of the grown-ups inside (they seem to have claimed it) but I don't go in, just sink down and sit listening to the two groups. The squealing and shouting from the snowball fight, and the muffled conversation from inside the igloo.  
  
I don't know what they're talking about in there. Work, maybe, or us. There's a burst of laughter. Something interesting, then. I have no idea what grown-ups talk about when they're alone together. I sit where I am, next to the igloo, knowing that I don't really fit in with either group. Clearly I'm not one of the grown-ups, even though I often find it easier to talk to them. And I can't join in properly with normal kids my age.  
  
I've got my own group, I suppose: school. I imagine that they're here with me. Kelly is being a wolf, prowling through the snow, hunting. Some of us join in, Emma and Aidan and I, running away screaming that she's trying to eat us. Terry is another wolf, while Mike will burst in halfway through as a man with a gun. Then Rhiannon will be a bear and pretend to eat him, charging round on her crutches while Kelly rolls around on the ground pretending to be wounded. Miss Scott and Mr Benedict stand to the side making sure the role-play doesn't get too rough and directing people back in the direction of the main game when they drift too far to the side. Most of the time, they're talking too, about normal grown-up things.  
  
Then we might play Eskimos, rubbing noses when we meet and hunting for "seals". Kelly would be an Eskimo at first, before getting bored and turning into a polar bear. Then we'd play Eskimos versus polar bears, or maybe we'd all become polar bears.  
  
But my class aren't here. It's nearly the end of the Christmas holidays, and I think now that the end can't come too soon for me. Getting back to a place where I don't have to worry about slowing people down, where walking into things isn't embarrassing but natural, where role-play isn't childish and where no-one cares whether snow is pretty just that it's cold and good for playing in.  
  
Then a memory springs unbidden to my mind, of sitting under the tree yesterday while Mum visited her parents' grave. Even if I don't fit in with my family, even if I feel like the odd one out or that they don't understand me, they're still here. And also they might be able to see but that doesn't mean everything. Just because they can see, that doesn't make them happy.  
  
I follow the curve of the igloo round until I reach the tunnel, then dropping to my hands and knees I enter. The change in temperature is immediately obvious. I straighten up and remove my hat and mittens, glad of a chance to let my skin breath for a bit. The warmth they provide is necessary, but that doesn't mean I'm not sweaty and uncomfortable underneath.  
  
Aunt Ginny is the first to notice me. "Alright, Hugo?"  
  
"I'm fine, just bored of playing." No need to tell them that I can't join in. One of them would probably come up with a game I could do and make the others play it with me, and I don't want to spoil the others’ fun.  
  
I don't join in the conversations really, just stand leaning against the wall. After a few minutes I peel my scarf off too, and drop the items in a pile next to my feet. I can't really follow the grown-up conversation, which is about Quidditch. I mean I know quite a bit about Quidditch (Dad wouldn't have it any other way) but not enough to be able to name players or know what's special about a sloth-grip roll.  
  
There's some mention of the Cannons, and more bouts of laughter. I know about the Cannons - Dad supports them, and they always lose. I stick with Mum, who favours the Harpies - Aunt Ginny's old team. If I pay any attention to it at all.  
  
I haven't practised much today, I realise. I did a bit of piano before breakfast, but not my full practise and no harp at all. I'll have to do it this evening, so hopefully the rest of the family won't want to watch TV the entire time. If they do, I'll probably play anyway, but the sound of the TV is distracting - I find myself listening to the program - and I worry that I'm ruining the program for the others.  
  
I don't have to worry. I take off my wet outer clothes quickly when we get home and go straight through to the living room. My fingers are clumsy at first, but I soon get warmed up into it and play solidly until I'm called into the kitchen for tea.  
  
I'm exhausted when I finally head up the stairs to bed. I remember flying down the hill, my head turned slightly to the side to avoid Lily's streaming hair. The crunch of the snow, the smooth hard ice. In a few days it'll all melt, leaving nothing but mud and puddles. School will start again too late for us to take advantage of it.  
  
I wonder what the rest of the class have been doing. Aidan might have built a snowman with his brother. Rhiannon's probably been stuck inside thanks to her crutches - the fire didn't just take her sight but also made it hard for her to walk unsupported. Her parents wouldn't risk letting her out, even though she's perfectly capable. Kelly's probably abroad; her parents take her all over the world, to every single continent, to tropical beaches (she comes back muttering about sunburn) and snow-capped mountains. She doesn't mention it much, though, only when we're going round the class talking about what we did over the holidays.  
  
I roll over and tangle the duvet round my legs. It's been a long day. Even with all of the time I spent sitting to the side out of the way.


	14. For Family and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's telling us that everything will be alright, just like grown-ups always do. So many grown-ups told me that the healers would find a way to make me able to see, and later that being blind didn't really make a difference. There are normal lies and white lies, and grown-up lies. Although there's no real difference between normal lies and grown-up lies.

  **Chapter Fourteen - For Family and Friends**  
  
   
  
When I wake up, it's raining. Hard. I hear it drum on the window, the gurgle from the drain and the patter from the dripping gutter. No more playing in the snow, then! I sit downstairs instead, next to the back door as the rain drums against it. A fine storm. But I can't wander outside two days in a row or Mum'll move the key so I can't find it.  
  
And it keeps on raining, right through the weekend. Aidan rings (we hardly ever use the phone, but apparently our schools would find it very suspicious if we didn't have a number to put down. It's been modified to be resistant to magic) and invites me round, so I go and we play video games together.  
  
It's great fun, sitting on the sofa yelling at the controllers in our hands. Whenever we walk into something, the handset vibrates in a certain way, and there are other noises and vibrations for getting shot at and for hitting your target. Aidan taught me what all of the different vibrations and noises mean the first time we played (his parents and brother having explained it to him when he first played it).  
  
And then it's release day at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It's still raining, but that doesn't stop the crowd from filling the street outside. As family, we get to shelter in the VIP marquee, and I sit there listening to the raindrops drumming on the canvas and dripping to the ground. From only a few metres away comes excited chatter and the shuffling of feet, which falls silent as the door to the shop swings open.  
  
"Hello everyone, and good evening!" calls Uncle George from in front of the shop. "The Great British weather is as reliable as ever, but that's not going to dampen the mood, is it?" There's a resounding cheer. "Now I know exactly why you're all here... you couldn't miss an opportunity to see my beautiful face, could you?"  
  
Everyone laughs, and Uncle George carries on. He knows how to entertain a crowd, how to make them forget that they're cold and soaking wet and that many of them have been standing here for hours.  
  
Then suddenly his voice is sober. "And now before we get to the big reveal, I'd like to take a moment to remember my twin brother, who should be standing here next to me telling his share of the jokes. As you probably know, he was one of the many fallen at the Battle of Hogwarts. I'm not going to ask you to remember him, but I'm going to ask you to think of anyone you know who's suffered, perhaps died, in the struggle to make a world worth living in. And all of the brave people who never give up, who keep on fighting right to the end."  
  
There's a second's pause, then a loud whistling and popping as a round of fireworks are released. "They wouldn't want us to be miserable," calls Uncle George in the same voice he used to entertain the crowd earlier. "Remember their lives, not their deaths. Do them proud. Fred would want to see everyone grinning, laughing. So would everyone else who died that night, and at any other time."  
  
There's a moment's pause as the last fireworks burst high above, accompanied by murmurs from the crowd. Then Uncle George moves straight on, thanking the staff and customers, joking around, and mentioning all of the other things that he always talks about before the release.  
  
"And now for the main event! Now you've all been waiting to hear what we've been working on all year. So without further ado, I'm going to hand over to my staff, who are impatiently waiting to tear the cloths off those pedestals and tell you all about the new products which will be waiting for you on the shelves from tomorrow morning. Jackie's one of our amazing assistants at the Hogsmeade branch, and she's going to present the first new product. Over to you then, Jackie!"  
  
He's got staff from every part of the business: a shop assistant from each branch, members of the legal and financial teams, graphic designers responsible for packaging and publicity, and the store managers themselves.   
  
"And of course we couldn't forget Rachel. Rachel is... well, her job title is 'personal assistant' but I don't think that describes all that she does. She takes it upon herself to sort through all of the product suggestions we receive each year for the annual Young Inventors competition, narrowing the field down somewhat and saving me a great many hours when I come to looking through the suggestions myself and picking a winner. Meaning I can spend those hours inventing!" The crowd cheers yet again.  
  
"And when she's not trawling through hundreds of sketches looking for a potential bestseller, she's doing an awful lot of other things to make sure the business runs smoothly. And don't ask me for specifics, because I have no idea how she does it! All I know is that when I ask her whether something's been done she tells me it has, and she knows the answer to every single question in existence." A chuckle ripples through the crowd at his presentation. "But anyway, I've waffled enough - as Rachel will be interrupting me to point out at any moment. So Rachel, would you like to reveal the winning product in this year's Young Inventors competition?"  
  
"If I may... the winner of this year's Young Inventors competition is..." There's a collective 'ooh' as she apparently whips off the cover, followed by whispering, "Albus Potter, with his Blindfold Broom!"  
  
Al? But... I suppose I don't really know him that well. I doubt he told anyone that he was applying, just spent weeks in his room drawing sketches and annotating them to send off. And Blindfold Broom. Is it..?  
  
"The Blindfold Broom features a wide range of sensors and has set signals to allow the rider to fly blindfold. It produce different vibrations and sounds depending on the relative location and proximity of nearby objects - including people - and it will tell you your distance above ground every twenty feet to help judge speed of ascent and descent and of course whether you are about to charge into the ground. Cushioning charms protect the broom and rider in case of collisions, and it's extremely stable. We've been working with Comet on the broom design itself, and while it isn't a top racing broom it is certainly very capable. It has a beautiful polished mahogany handle and hazel tail twigs for high-precision turning. It might have special features built in, but even without them it would be excellent for casual use."  
  
"It's rather different to our usual products," says Uncle George, "but I know we're very enthusiastic about it. Of course we're not going to start selling ourselves as broom-makers - at least not yet! But can you imagine flying without being able to see where you're going? It has applications for night-time use, too, and for the visually impaired, and of course it could be good for a laugh. So Mr Albus Potter, if you'd like to come up here..?"  
  
Applause starts properly, but I'm distracted by what Uncle George said. Applications for the visually impaired... that's me! A broom I could fly, without worrying about crashing into things.  
  
Al says very little, as I'd expect, and is allowed to go back to his seat after just a couple of questions and being handed the prize money. "And don't forget," Uncle George calls out, cutting off the cheers, "that applications are now open for next year's Young Inventors competition! So anyone aged sixteen or under, with an amazing idea for the next big product, get sketching and send it in! I have flyers up here with more details, or you can pick them up in either shop. Any questions, don't hesitate to owl the team!"  
  
"Finally, I have an announcement to make. Some of you may have heard the rumours, and I would now like to confirm that the Diagon Alley store will indeed be moving to larger premises. In a few weeks, once Rachel and the legal team have finished organising the paperwork, building work will start just down the road - right over there, in fact. It'll be sad to leave the place where it all started, but over there we'll have more floor space for even more products." He pauses to let the cheering die down. "Now we'll be open at seven tomorrow morning, and I'd love to see loads of you there, but the team need to get plenty of sleep so they're fresh when doors open and I'm sure you're all soaked enough already, so I'll say goodbye - and enjoy the show!"  
  
The first firework goes up as the crowd burst into applause. Music starts up too, synchronised to the fireworks, and Dad nudges me to stand up. "Uncle George is waving you over," he says in my ear, and I offer him my arm so he can take me across.  
  
"Survived?" says Uncle George, slightly hoarsely. "That was a good show. And I've got something for you. A late Christmas present, if you like." He places something in my hand, a smooth wooden stick with a weight on one end. I shift it, feeling the shape all the way along, then turn my head up grinning.  
  
"It's the broom, isn't it?"  
  
"That's right. I thought it would be perfect for you. It's an excellent concept, and would be great fun for any kid - or adult; I've enjoyed testing it myself - but I think I know where Al got his inspiration from. Enjoy. Oh, and come round at the weekend and I'll help you get the hang of using it. My opportunity to become the favourite uncle!"  
  
"Oh, thank you!"  
  
"You're welcome. Now the press are about to get bored of the event and move onto your family, so you'd better go. See you at the weekend."  
  
I don't actually leave the broom until next weekend, but mount it and fly very slowly around the house, not far off the ground. It works perfectly, and I'm reluctant to get off to go to bed. But it's the first day of term tomorrow, so to bed I go.  
  
And the next morning I walk into the junior common room and sit down in the usual corner. Patrick and Mike are already there, and Aidan's right behind me, and we talk about the various things we did in the snow. This degenerates to 'who made the biggest snowman', with increasingly unlikely exaggerations.  
  
We stop at the sound of Rhiannon's crutches, greeting her instead. Now the conversation moves on to Christmas, how much we all hate visiting relatives, and presents. Terry joins straight in the moment he arrives, and when Emma turns up we bombard her with questions because we've already said everything worth saying about our own holidays.  
  
The bell rings, and we stand to walk to the classroom. It's Rhiannon who voices what everyone's wondering: "Where's Kelly?" Probably stuck in traffic, we agree, or having an extra long holiday.  
  
"Good morning! Welcome back!" The teachers' greetings seem less enthusiastic than usual. Our chatter dies down and we sit in our usual seats waiting to hear what we're doing today. Most likely we just imagined it and everything's normal, or perhaps the teachers just had bad holidays. But Miss Scott addresses us soberly.  
  
"I'm sure you've noticed that Kelly isn't here. She won't be at school for at least a month, almost certainly longer. She's in hospital, and she needs our thoughts and prayers." There's a deathly silence as the news sinks in. We all know about hospitals, have plenty of experience going in, but not unexpectedly and long-term like this. Well, the health in this school is a major theme. We're all blind, but a lot of people here have other problems too. Rhiannon's not the only pupil with crutches, and there are several in other years with wheelchairs. At least three of the others in this room are on regular medication, which the teachers help them administer at set times throughout the day. But actually being in hospital means a change in condition.  
  
"At your age, most schools would just tell you that she was ill, but you're different. You know more health terms and disease names than most adults, and you know how hospitals work. You're blind for various reasons, and in many cases that's just one symptom of a genetic disorder. As you may well know, Kelly has oculocutaneous albinism, meaning she lacks coloured pigment in her eyes, hair, and skin. The lack of melanin pigments mean she is extra susceptible to sunburn and, as a result, to skin cancer. Four days ago, her family became concerned and took her to the doctor for a check-up, and she was diagnosed with melanoma, or skin cancer."  
  
The news is greeted with silence. No-one can imagine Kelly ill; not really ill, anyway. I remember her arguing with Miss Scott on the last day of term about taking the donkey mask home, promising to bring it back and her excitement at being told she could make one for herself in craft lessons. And there are a lot of diseases with long complicated names that don't mean much, but cancer we've all heard of.  
  
We spend the morning making presents to send to her, models made from clay, toy animals sewn together from pieces of felt with scented beads added to the stuffing. Then when we've finished that and tidied up, Mr Benedict brings up the milk and fruit for break so we can spend it in the classroom. Nobody really feels like talking, and we're certainly grateful that we don't have to go down to the junior common room and listen to the other classes enjoying themselves.  
  
After break, Miss Scott plunges straight into a maths lesson, following this with French up until lunch. There's very little opportunity to think when multiplication questions are being thrown at random members of the class and you don't know whether you'll be next, and when you're mentally conjugating lists of verbs.  
  
We sit together in the dining hall, clumped together around a table in silence. We're the only quiet table, everyone else talking happily about nothing in particular. Mr Benedict comes round halfway through the meal and prompts us to eat, and once we've cleaned our plates he deposits bowls of apple crumble and custard in front of us. I have to admit that food does help.  
  
We stay there as the hall begins to empty, and no-one objects because it's too wet to go outside and there's only here and the common room. "Do you think she's going to die?" asks Rhiannon suddenly.  
  
"Miss Scott said she might be back in a month. She certainly talked like she thought Kelly would be coming back." I say it with as much conviction as I can muster.  
  
"Kelly doesn't give up," adds Emma. "She'll come back even if no-one thinks she will." Both arguments are true, but we can't help but worry.  
  
And then it's an afternoon of history, learning about Roman amphitheatres. All of the different types of gladiators, with their different kinds of weapons, including the ones who fought wild animals. And all of the different kinds of animals they fought - everything from lions to impala to ostriches. The empire meant they could get them from all over the place, from Africa and Asia and elsewhere in Europe. We have model gladiators, and model animals, and we debate which would win for each pairing. Then as the lesson draws on we set them on each other, creating carnage as one after another falls 'dead' to the ground (to come back to life later).  
  
"...and then the lion leaps in and eats him," Mike says towards the end of a particularly brutal killing session, and suddenly it hits me fully that there's a voice missing. Kelly should be the one controlling an army of wild animals, making them charge in and wipe out every gladiator in the ring. But instead, it's Mike. I mean he would usually join her, because she can't handle all of the models at once, but she's be straight in telling him that the lion had targeted the wrong person and that lions don't hunt like that, and that 'eats' is a really boring way of putting it (although she'd use the word herself a minute later).  
  
I try to act normally when I get home, but I can't fool Mum. She catches me alone in the kitchen.  
  
"What's up? Something's happened at school, hasn't it?"  
  
"Nothing," I say, mostly from force of habit.  
  
"Not true." OK, it's pretty obvious that wasn't true.  
  
"Friend's ill," I mumble. She doesn't know Kelly, wouldn't understand. It's just our class who really know her.  
  
"Oh dear. Serious?"  
  
"She's in hospital. Skin cancer; she's got albinism so it's easier for her to get it."  
  
"Oh." Mum's silent for a minute; she didn't expect this. No-one did, even those of us who actually know who she is. "That's horrible, for her and her family. A shock to your class, too. I hope she recovers soon."  
  
"It'll be at least a month before she comes back, Miss Scott says."  
  
"A month? That's not all that long, really." Really? It feels like a long time to me. And Miss Scott said it'll probably be longer. "They have to do tests, and then there's the waiting list for treatment, she'll have an operation or whatever they need to do and then they'll keep her in to keep an eye on her immediately afterwards. As she's only your age, they'll probably keep her in for longer than an adult."  
  
Mum doesn't understand, I decide. She doesn't even know Kelly. She's telling us that everything will be alright, just like grown-ups always do. So many grown-ups told me that the healers would find a way to make me able to see, and later that being blind didn't really make a difference. There are normal lies and white lies, and grown-up lies. Although there's no real difference between normal lies and grown-up lies.  
  
"Don't you have practise to do?" she asks me, changing the subject abruptly.  
  
"Oh, yeah." It's one of those days when I don't really feel like playing, but I never miss a day. I know I'll enjoy it when I actually start, it's just that I don't feel like starting. I make myself do it anyway, with the same scales and exercises as I use every day. I know them well enough I can do them even when I'm struggling to concentrate, and as they get harder they take up more and more of my concentration until I'm focussed purely on the music.  
  
"Hugo?" I finish the passage I'm working on before acknowledging that I've heard Rose.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"When you've finished, can we talk for a bit?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
I don't know, just talk. I'm going back to Hogwarts in a few days and then I won't see you until Easter. I feel like we've hardly talked since I got back, and now you're back at school during the day..."  
  
"Mmm-hmm. I won't be much longer. Are you going to be in your room?"  
  
"Do you mind if I listen? I know you play all the time, but it's something I miss when I'm at Hogwarts..."  
  
"If you like." I launch back into the music, breaking off the conversation.  
  
It's not until I've nearly finished that I start thinking about why she might be here. So she wants to talk. Why now? We've had the whole holiday, and there's another couple of days before she leaves, so why today in particular? Maybe it has something to do with my first day of term reminding her I'm not here all the time. Or maybe Mum set her up to it.  
  
I finish playing and turn on the piano stool. "Did Mum tell you to come and talk?"  
  
"Of course not! I just-"  
  
"Lie." It's obvious in her voice. I'm not annoyed or upset; I just state it as a fact.  
  
"I-" She pauses, takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Mum said I should come and talk to you. But that only made me think to come now; I want to anyway. As I said, it's a long term."  
  
"She didn't give a reason?"  
  
"No, why?"  
  
"No reason," I say decisively. "So, talk. What do you want to talk about?" So long as it's not what I did at school today. I don't know how I'd answer - probably I'd refuse to answer at all. But then she'd get suspicious about what I was hiding, and I'd have to think about it, about Kelly-  
  
"Your birthday. I've always been at your birthday parties, but not this year. Mum wrote a bit about it in her letter, but nothing interesting. What did you do?"  
  
"Well, Aidan came round for tea. You know Aidan..?"  
  
"I think so. If he's the same one from school who came round several times, before I left."  
  
"I think he's the only one who's actually visited. Um, I can't really remember..." I think hard. What did we actually do? Sang crazy versions of Old MacDonald, had tea - I can't even remember what we ate. "Oh yeah, he brought Benji - his guide dog."  
  
"Guide dog..?"  
  
"I thought you integrated with muggles at primary school. It's a muggle thing, specially trained dogs who can look after blind people. Charities train them and pay for them, but it can be difficult to actually get them. Especially for children. Aidan's only had Benji since the summer, and before that in our class only Kelly had one, and she's only had Min for about a year, because she got really lucky." Where's Min now? Guide dogs are allowed in loads of places where normal dogs like Snuffles aren't, but maybe not to stay in a hospital. Kelly's probably been forced to leave her at home.  
  
"Well I never had any reason to know about guide dogs." She realises that I might be offended by this and carries on quickly. "Are they like big dogs? Not little yappy ones, I don't expect..."  
  
"How could they be _like_ big dogs without _being_ big dogs?" I tease. "They're pretty big, yeah, not as big as Snuffles," (Snuffles is huge), "but definitely not small and yappy. Really calm, hardly ever bark. And they're so well trained, they always know what they're supposed to do and when something's wrong."  
  
"So why haven't you got one? Is it just because there aren't enough?"  
  
"That's part of it. The records side's difficult because of course all my medical stuff happens at St Mungo's but we can't tell the muggles that. We tend to avoid talking to the authorities as much as possible, because then they ask questions we can't answer. And mostly guide dogs are only for people over sixteen. Children getting them have to go through all of this assessment stuff about whether the dog would really make a difference and it would be suitable and all of that. A few years ago, it was even harder; it wouldn't have been possible at all at our age. No, but how would we explain it to the charity people when in a year and a half I go to Hogwarts? There aren't many suitable boarding schools, and if they were keeping track of me because of a dog they'd get very suspicious."  
  
"I'm not sure how much sense that made, but I get the general picture. So part of it is availability and part of it's the Statute."  
  
"Yeah. So how's Hogwarts - anything funny happen? Not lessons or grades or whatever, just pranks or... has the eagle asked any really good questions?"  
  
"Well, I obviously can't remember all the riddles, but..."  
  
Rose might not be able to remember all of them, but she can certainly remember a lot! Coming up with loads of different (correct) answers to each one keeps us busy until Mum comes in and points out that it's a school night and definitely _my_ bedtime, even if Rose wants to stay up for a bit longer. I complain for the sake of it, pointing out that she's not that much older than me and it's not fair, but I do understand really so I go willingly enough once I've done what feels like a suitable amount of complaining.  
  
I fall asleep pretty quickly, but then I dream of clean hospital wards and there's a voice asking riddles, and I know there are loads of answers which I know but I can't seem to find them, can't say them, and I can't get out until I've answered them, and I can't find the answers...


	15. Beginnings and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hogwarts Express leaves on a school day, so when I say goodbye to Rose it's actually me leaving the house, not her. When I get home in the afternoon, she's long gone, probably nearly in Hogsmeade by now.
> 
> I sit in my room and type a letter to her, then crumple it up and throw it in the bin. She wouldn't be able to read it. I thought it might make me feel better, to be able to tell her things even if she isn't here, but it just makes the house feel more empty. Dad's downstairs, making tea, but Mum's working. Yet another meeting, trying to talk to more rude people, no doubt.

**Chapter Fifteen - Beginnings and Ends**  
  
   
  
The Hogwarts Express leaves on a school day, so when I say goodbye to Rose it's actually me leaving the house, not her. When I get home in the afternoon, she's long gone, probably nearly in Hogsmeade by now.  
  
I sit in my room and type a letter to her, then crumple it up and throw it in the bin. She wouldn't be able to read it. I thought it might make me feel better, to be able to tell her things even if she isn't here, but it just makes the house feel more empty. Dad's downstairs, making tea, but Mum's working. Yet another meeting, trying to talk to more rude people, no doubt.  
  
She comes in as we're just sitting down to eat, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump and sighing. Another wasted day, I guess.  
  
But her voice is jubilant. "Long day, but it was worth it!" Apparently I was mistaken! She may be exhausted, but there's a triumphant smile in her voice. "At last they're listening to me." She walks past, dropping a kiss on my head. "I can thank you for this, Hugo - I did as you suggested and reminded them that considering house-elves insentient is similar to thinking of muggle-borns as less than human, as the Death Eaters felt during the war. And that I know how it feels to be treated as inferior. As you suggested, I told them why _I_ care."  
  
"And they listened to that?" I ask, slightly incredulous. The meetings I've been to, I reckon Mum could have talked about the secret lives of centaurs and no-one would have noticed the change of subject.  
  
"I suppose I also have to thank the lovely _gentleman_ who decided to insult me. The others might not care, but they know they can't just ignore the M-word being yelled at a national hero during a serious ministry meeting. They felt obliged to support me against this terrible dishonour and this forced them to actually involve themselves in proceedings. Once involved, they couldn't really disassociate themselves from everything any more." Mum's voice is dripping with scorn.  
  
"Any idea who it was?" Dad asks darkly.  
  
"Yes," replies Mum sharply, "but it's been dealt with. Don't go getting yourself involved. I work in politics; being insulted is something you get used to and know how to use to your advantage. While I don't enjoy having my parentage criticised, at least it allowed me to be heard. I expect my good friend is rather regretting his hasty words now."  
  
"Right," mutters Dad. I concentrate on my food, listening as I spear pasta on my fork.  
  
"Come on, I've had enough politics for today. Shall we stop worrying about it, at least until we've finished eating?"  
  
"Yeah, alright." Dad doesn't sound too happy about it, but he falls silent and for the next five minutes the only sounds are of cutlery clinking against plates. Mum's and Dad's fall silent while I'm still chasing the last slippery pieces of pasta round my plate with my fork, and I sigh internally with the knowledge that I'm last to finish again. I prefer when they talk because then I actually stand some chance of not keeping them waiting.  
  
"What did you do at school today?" asks Mum when I've swallowed the last piece.  
  
"Stuff." That's one of my favourite ways to answer that particular question.  
  
"What sort of stuff?" Mum's used to that answer, knows it means I don't really want to talk about my day, but it doesn't stop her from prying further.  
  
"Stuffy kind of stuff." Dad snorts. You'd think he'd be used to that answer, too. I allow a respectable pause before carrying on. "Maths and writing, as usual, and my piano lesson."  
  
"Oh yes, piano lesson. How's Mr Greg?"  
  
"Same as he was last time you asked. Oh yeah, he had my exam result." I did my grade four exam a few weeks before the end of term, which consisted of going one by one going into the big practise room to play to 'the examiner', a strange man who didn't talk much except to tell us what to do. I was the only one doing grade four piano, although someone in year six did grade four viola (he started learning before he went blind). Mostly from school it was just people doing grade one, and mostly on piano.  
  
"And?" Mum asks, trying not to sound too eager.  
  
"I got distinction again." I've never had anything but distinction in any of my music exams, because I make sure everything is perfect before I go in. What's the point in doing an exam if you don't do your best in it?  
  
"Well done you!" says Mum. "You definitely deserve it!"  
  
"Yeah, well done," Dad adds quickly.  
  
"My certificate's in my bag, I think. Our names are going to be read out in assembly, but handing out certificates then just takes too long." Rose has talked about having to go up in assembly to get certificates for various stuff, but at my school they just read out the names.  
  
"And you were just going to leave it there to get crumpled in the bottom? Are you going to get it, or shall I?"  
  
"You can. Makes sure you put it back where I left it, though."  
  
"On the hook?"  
  
"On the hall floor next to my shoes."  
  
"I thought you liked to know where things were..."  
  
"I do. It's on the floor in the hall next to my shoes, where I always leave it - except when you move it." I say the last bit accusingly.  
  
"When I _tidy it up_. I'd think that wanting to know where things are all the time, you'd appreciate them being put away properly."  
  
"I know where I leave them: in perfectly logical places. My bag is next to my shoes, so I only have to remember one place."  
  
"You have no problems remembering where they both live."  
  
"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, it's easier to leave them together."  
  
"You take after your father, you know that?"  
  
Dad actually speaks up. "That's good, isn't it Hugo?" I stretch my arm out, find his arm, and punch it gently. The conversation descends into a kicking contest between me and Dad under the table, and partway through Mum gets up and makes all of the dishes fly into the washing up bowl. We ignore her.  
  
I don't notice her leaving the room and returning, probably because I'm distracted, but apparently she does because she interrupts our kicking contest. "Hugo, is there anything in here that you should have shown me?" She dumps my bag on the table.  
  
"Uh..." I wrack my brains, trying to remember. Probably, otherwise she wouldn't have mentioned it. "I guess so? I can't remember."  
  
"Parents' newsletter for December - and there's a November one here too. And a form for a trip to the science museum the Friday after next - when exactly did you intend to show me that?"  
  
"We're going..? Oh, yeah. I forgot."  
  
"Next time, young man, you can try harder to remember, or it won't be my fault if you don't return your forms in time! So you want to go?"  
  
"I guess..."  
  
"Do you _want_ to go? Is it worth me taking the time to fill in this slip?"  
  
"Um, yeah! Yes please!" I do my best to sound enthusiastic. It'll be a class trip, getting out of the classroom. I remember being told about it, now. Apparently there are lots of sensory things, not just displays for people to look at, but the main reason we're interested in going is because it sounds like fun, getting out as a group to somewhere different where there'll be less work to do and more chances to mess around. And I don't know what people would do if they didn't go and everyone else did - maybe get the day off, or maybe have to work with another class or something. At least if we all go then even if the museum's really boring we'll be able to entertain each other.  
  
"I'm putting this in the front pocket of your bag. Don't forget to hand it in! Do it tomorrow!"  
  
" _Yes_ , Mum." I make a mental note of it.  
  
The mental note isn't enough, of course. As is typical, I forget about the slip the moment I get out of the car and don't remember it until we're driving home. At least Mum forgets to check. Miss Scott reminds us the week before the trip, and I dig into my bag then. It's a narrow slip of paper with "Science Museum trip" in Braille across the bottom and, presumably, normal writing on the rest.  
  
The Science Museum is better than I expected it to be. There are places where you press buttons and different animal noises sound, or a calm voice talks about various science-y things. A lot of the displays are written in Braille. We have a guide who talks a lot, but we generally ignore him. I pity poor Miss Scott and Mr Benedict, trying to keep track of us all and not leave anyone behind (which must be quite a task, even though there are only seven of us) but that doesn't mean Aidan and I are going to walk quietly and listen to the tour guide.   
  
When we're together, it seems less embarrassing when one of us walks into someone not from school. We laugh a lot, and being blind isn't something to be pitied for - all of those normal people are just shuffling around murmuring to each other, while we're positively dashing round, calling to each other and pressing all of the buttons and we can still read all of the articles on the boards because they're in Braille as well as normal writing. And no-one complains about or behaviour because they wouldn't want to spoil the fun of a bunch of blind kids!  
  
Then the next Monday, we come into the classroom and sit down and Miss Scott quiets us. "I have a message from the hospital, on Kelly." She gets silence immediately. Last Monday, she told us that Kelly was apparently very frustrated at being stuck in hospital and was preparing for surgery later that week. How obviously she was scared for it, but it wasn't a particularly invasive or dangerous operation.  
  
"They carried out the operation last Friday and Kelly is recovering well. They removed the tumour and carried out a skin graft to cover the place." So while we were running round the science museum, vaguely thinking it was a shame Kelly wasn't here because she'd have really enjoyed it, she was actually in the operating theatre. And we didn't consider it.   
  
"However they are concerned that the cancer may have reached her lymph nodes and she will need further treatment to ensure that it doesn't come back. She probably won't be back this month, because once she's clear they'll still want to keep an eye on her, and she will need time to recover fully. She ought to be back after half term, as healthy as ever. Now, Braillers out. I hope you've all learnt your spellings for this week..."  
  
Well, I've learnt _most_ of them. All of the ones that I'm ever likely to need, anyway. Once we've done the spelling test, we have to write short pieces about the visit to the Science Museum. Mike speaks up. "Can I send mine to Kelly?"  
  
"That's an excellent idea! Instead of all writing about the Science Museum, how about you all write about different things you've done? And then we can send all of the letters to the hospital for Kelly to read when she's well enough to do so. Who would like to write about the trip, then?" Once Mike's asked to write about the trip, we all get to choose what we want to talk about.  
  
"Miss, can I write a story?" I ask suddenly, as an idea pops into my head. "A made-up one?"  
  
"That's a lovely idea! Go ahead, Hugo."  
  
I sit with my fingers poised on the keys for a few minutes, thinking. If I wrote about magic, it would seem like a really exciting fantasy, but it would be hard to explain every single thing as I went. Especially as I'd have to write it as though I were making it up.  
  
But then there are Uncle Charlie's stories, about the dragons in Romania. She'd love to read one of them, and muggles do have a lot of stories about dragons (although they don't know they're real). And if I exaggerated the problems, I could make the stories more exciting...  
  
I've never allowed anyone else to read my stories before, not my proper fiction ones. Obviously there are the descriptions of things I've done and places I've been and the various pieces I've had to write for school, but I've never really had free reign to be creative or an audience to entertain.  
  
 _Charlie was a dragon keeper in Romania. He looked after a lot of dragons, including a Norwegian  Ridgeback called Surtr. One day Surtr wasn't his usual self. He didn't want to eat his dinner and his nostrils weren't smoking properly..._  
  
I can use names, real details of the wizarding world, because to a muggle it looks like fantasy. In fact I laugh to myself on several occasions as I change small details for the sake of making the story more exciting. There's a lot more fire and roaring than there was in Uncle Charlie's account, and some of the other dragon keepers get hurt because they're not as good at their job as Charlie; clearly in the real world, they'd be more careful than the ones in my story.  
  
In fact after the first couple of paragraphs, the story bears little or no resemblance to Uncle Charlie's tales. There are even more dragons causing problems, burning things down, threatening the keepers. The sort of thing the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary would never allow to happen - or at least if it did they'd be very quick to put a stop to it.  
  
I type the final line with a flourish then remove the paper, setting the pages in order in front of me and beginning to read through. The first thing that strikes me is how many spelling mistakes I've made.  
  
So I reload the Brailler and, tracking across my first draft, type it up again, editing sentences so they flow better and fixing typos. It's easy to make mistakes on the Brailler, as you don't really check what you've written until you've finished the page and removed it from the machine. I'll probably have a few, even after retyping it, but I'm trying to be careful and hopefully it'll be better than that first draft.  
  
I wonder what Mum would think of the story. I'd really rather not show it to her. First of all, there's the fact it's based on the wizarding world and she'd fuss about the statute (it's obviously fiction, so muggles would just think it was made up, but she'd probably worry about it), and also the high level of violence - the number of people injured or killed, the level of the damage, and the number of highly creative methods of destruction I've come up with.  
  
I realise I have two people being burnt to a crisp (repetition, just not good enough) so I make one of them get melted down into a puddle instead (I'm not sure what's so different about the two encounters with dragon fire that one person melts and the other burns, but I don't worry about it). I rework the last section to get rid of the boring happy ending (based on the one in Uncle Charlie's story) and replace it with everybody dying and the world being set on fire (I may or may not have got that from the Slytherin Conspiracy conversation at Uncle Percy's party). Kelly'll like it, I decide as I check the page order and hand them over to Mr Benedict.  
  
I turn my attention to the next lesson, which is PE. We're indoors, in the sports hall, because as usual it's raining outside. Not that I'd object to getting wet and muddy, but for whatever reason the teachers feel we should stay inside in bad weather. We do football practise (the ball is the kind with ball-bearings inside so it rattles and we can follow it), dribbling up and down the length of the hall (someone at the far end calls constantly so you can tell where they are) and then passing backwards and forwards. We usually work in pairs, but as there are only seven of us Mr Benedict joins in.  
  
"It's not fair, sir! You can see!" Mike's voice is joined by other laughing protests.  
  
Mr Benedict concedes that it isn't really fair, and Miss Scott points out that the best way to make it fair is for him to be blindfolded. She's definitely struggling not to laugh out loud. Mr Benedict agrees to wear the blindfold, and we successfully waste a large part of the lesson laughing at his comments about "where am I? Am I walking in circles? Ah, a wall. I'm not leaving the wall again for the rest of the lesson."  
  
"Come on! It's not that hard! Walk towards my voice." We then play the usual game: guiding him towards our voices, not letting him know that the guide is actually moving away from him so he probably won't actually reach them. And not being used to it, it takes him a very long time to catch on. We have to admit that Miss Scott plays along well, not warning him but letting us have our fun.  
  
Rhiannon make matters more chaotic by hopping around on her crutches, occasionally whacking people with them as she passes. She's limited in what she can do in PE lessons but can just about manage to kick a football with her good leg and she uses a wheelchair for throwing sports where she needs her hands free at least some of the time. Aidan, Emma, and I drift away into a corner, manage to hunt down a football, and start kicking it between us while we wait for the others to move on. The game's pretty funny, especially listening to Mr Benedict's comments, but we can't all take part or we end up getting under each other's feet.  
  
Patrick and Mike join us in the corner, leaving just Rhiannon and Terry to wind up Mr Benedict. They do, admittedly, do a pretty good job of it. In our corner, we kick the football around between us and talk about what we did at the weekend. I don't have much to talk about, apart from the harp lesson; Mum suggested going out somewhere, but Dad was working on Sunday and the harp lesson took up quite a bit of Saturday, and we couldn't think of anywhere we wanted to go. Especially as, as usual, it was raining.  
  
None of the others did much, by the sound of it. A bit of relative-visiting, Emma went to her boxing club, and everyone with siblings played with them.  
  
"How's Rose?" asks Aidan. "She's always out when I come round, or being really quiet upstairs or something."  
  
"Oh- she's at boarding school!" Had I really not told anyone? I guess I probably haven't had any reason to. "She was back for Christmas, but she's gone back again now."  
  
Emma's incredulous. "Why does she want to go to boarding school? No home time, living in the same place as your teachers..."  
  
"...not seeing your family except in the holidays," Aidan adds. I think quickly. Do I tell them?  
  
"I'm probably going to go to boarding school too."  
  
This time everyone reacts. "What? No! What about us? Why?"  
  
"Not until year seven, when we'd have to leave here anyway." I can't explain the reason: that the only places you can go to learn magic are boarding schools. Well, unless your parents teach you, and I don't really want to spend seven years having lessons with Mum. She'd have to give up her job to do it, too, and she wouldn't want to do that. Especially not now house-elf rights might actually be getting somewhere. Lessons with Dad might be fun, but he's always busy doing Auror stuff and I'm not convinced Mum would let him teach me.  
  
"I thought we were all going to go on to... I don't know, actually, but the same place." Aidan sounds unsure now. "Maybe if you asked your parents, they would let you go to the same place as the rest of us." They might. Mum would teach me magic, even if she would rather be working. But it would be hard, going to muggle school and learning magic as well. And I've heard so much about Hogwarts, always had it in my head that I'm going to go there.  
  
Could I stay at muggle school, not bother learning magic at all? I've always had really good control of my magic, even when I lose my temper - I haven't done accidental magic for years (at least not that I'm aware of) so maybe it wouldn't be too dangerous if I just didn't learn to use it. It would probably be safer, as I wouldn't even be able to see where I was aiming spells so would likely just destroy a lot of stuff. Yes, I'd be better off continuing to learn muggle subjects and getting a job in the muggle world. Where I can take advantage of all of the things they have in place to help blind people rather than struggling to cope in a world which doesn't know how to deal with me.  
  
It makes sense, but I can't quite imagine giving up on Hogwarts. All of the older cousins are there, and in the family we all talk about it all of the time. I expect before I was born people were making guesses at what House I'd be in. Probably Gryffindor - all of the adults seem to believe that each of us will end up in Gryffindor, and as each year more of us have been Sorted their guesses have been proved wrong (except by James). That hasn't made them change their expectations, though - they're probably still convinced that Lily, Fred, Lucy, and Roxie will be Gryffindors. Maybe even me, too.  
  
I don't really mind where I end up. I've heard so much about Gryffindor, but I think I'd actually rather be in one of the other Houses. Hufflepuff should be nice. I like what I've heard of Ravenclaw, too, and Louis is a Slytherin and loves it. I'd be happy wherever. As to where I'm most likely to end up? Hufflepuff, probably, but I won't know until the Sorting.  
  
I've been building up to Hogwarts my entire life, worrying about whether they'd actually take me and be able to teach me but still with a kind of knowledge that I _will_ go. While I'm tempted to ask to just live as a muggle, to go to school with Aidan and the rest, I don't think I could bring myself to do it. At least there are advantages if it turns out I _can't_ go to Hogwarts.  
  
"We don't know where we're going yet," points out Emma. "I'm probably going to boarding school too, maybe the same one as Hugo." My mind starts racing. Could she really be going to Hogwarts too? No, of course not; at least not that she knows. There _might_ be a muggle-born in the class, but it's unlikely and if Emma was one she wouldn't know yet. And her parents can't be magical because I'm the only blind wizarding kid at least since St Mungo's was founded (the only one in England, anyway).  
  
No, she won't be going to the same one. "Yeah, maybe!" I say anyway, as it'll probably result in fewer questions.  
  
"Which ones are you both going to?"  
  
"It's a big one up in Scotland," Emma answers while I'm still trying to think how to answer the question. "You know we go up to the Highlands for a week every summer? I really like it up there, and the one I'm going to is about the best blind school in the UK. It's really big."  
  
My breath caught when she mentioned Scotland, but returns to normal when she clarifies that it's a blind school. Not Hogwarts. Well obviously it's not Hogwarts, but I couldn't stop myself from wondering. I don't know why I feel disappointed – I’ve always known no-one from school is going to be with me at Hogwarts (unless one turns out to be a muggle-born, and there's next to no chance of that).  
  
"Hugo?" prompts Aidan.  
  
"Um, I can't remember the name," I lie. "It's something weird, and I wasn't really listening when Mum was discussing it. It sounds good, though, a pretty small place in an old castle somewhere."  
  
"Oh. Well you should tell your parents you don't want to go, and we can all apply to this Scottish place where Emma's going. Or find out the name of this little castle one and we'll all go there. Though I don't know - I don't really want to go to a boarding school. I didn't think you would, either. It would be different if your parents couldn't deal with the whole, you know, blind thing; but all of our parents are used to it. I wouldn't want to leave home for months at a time and live with strangers." Aidan sounds confused, hurt even.  
  
"Yeah," adds Mike. "I thought we were all going to the place a few miles out in the country. It's practically the same school! Everyone I know moves on to there."  
  
"Well obviously most people move on to there," snaps Emma. "There aren't that many blind schools round here. It's a whole lot bigger than here, with some people boarding and some going just for lessons and stuff like we do here. It wouldn't be the same at all, and we're not going to be able to spend the rest of our lives with just each other."  
  
Mike snaps back at her, "no, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't stick together if we can. We can get to know other people and still be friends."  
  
Emma sighs exasperatedly. "The Royal Blind in Scotland is a really good school. It's my best chance of really getting somewhere, maybe going to university and finding a really good job. I don't want to be stuck in some stupid sheltered job for the rest of my life, just because I'm blind. I'm going to do everything I can to show people I'm not any worse than them, just because I got mauled by some stupid dog before I was two years old."  
  
Silence greets that. Emma's never told us before how she ended up blind, just saying it was an accident as a baby. My mind jumps to the time Kelly first brought Min to school, how everyone else was excited while she hung back and didn't really comment. We thought she just didn't wanted to stay back out of the crush.  
  
Then the rest of her statement sinks in, and I realise I feel the same. Just because some stupid Death Eaters tortured Mum before I was even thought of, I'm not going to spend my entire life being useless. I'm going to show the healers, that woman in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, show Mum that it's not going to ruin my life. That I may not be able to see, but I'm still just as good as them. 


	16. Of National Importance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mum sighs. "Can anyone actually remember what the sun looks like?"
> 
> "Um, no," I point out, for the sake of it. It's petty and stupid, but I never seem able to stop myself.
> 
> "You must never look at the sun," adds Lily, joining me in pointing out technicalities.
> 
> "You know what I mean," says Mum tiredly. "I'm just fed up with this. Grey, grey, everywhere. I know it's still January, but this weather isn't natural."

**Chapter Sixteen - Of National Importance**  
  
   
  
On Sunday morning, we go to visit the Potters. There's some talk of going to Godric's Hollow for another picnic, but the sky is apparently still demonstrating its capacity for perpetual precipitation. Instead we sit in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, the mood typical of dull days and of having been trapped for a while.  
  
"Still raining," Uncle Harry says.  
  
"Yep. That's, what, three weeks now?" Mum sighs. "Can anyone actually remember what the sun looks like?"  
  
"Um, no," I point out, for the sake of it. It's petty and stupid, but I never seem able to stop myself.  
  
"You must never look at the sun," adds Lily, joining me in pointing out technicalities.  
  
"You know what I mean," says Mum tiredly. "I'm just fed up with this. Grey, grey, everywhere. I know it's still January, but this weather isn't natural."  
  
Aunt Ginny laughs. "No doubt the summer will be baking hot and we'll all be praying for a bit of rain."  
  
"Not me," says Dad. "I've had enough rain to last me a lifetime."  
  
"I'll remember that when you're moaning about melting into a puddle on the ground, come July."  
  
"Puddles can't moan," Lily interjects.  
  
"You stop trying to be clever, young madam."  
  
Lily giggles. "I'm not _trying_ , Mum; I'm _succeeding_."  
  
"We're a right bunch of Brits, aren't we, sitting here moaning about the weather." says Mum.  
  
"At least it's something to talk about," says Dad. The conversation doesn't pick up again, though.  
  
Mum tries again after an awkward silence. "How's the work going, Ginny? On the house, you know - clearing the contaminated material."  
  
"Isn't there a match on the TV, Ron?" Uncle Harry interrupts.  
  
"Puddlemere versus Portree, isn't it? Should only just have started."  
  
"Ooh, that should be an interesting game," says Aunt Ginny, getting up with them. "I've covered matches for both teams, but young Conway does most of the minor league matches now." Lily and I follow them, and with a sigh Mum stands up too. The other three adults are having an animated discussion about some Quidditch player or other as they wander out of the room in the direction of the TV.  
  
"...Hanslip passes to Broad, back to Hanslip- no, excellent interception from Taylor there, and she's shooting off down the pitch. An experienced member of the team, and a force to be reckoned with - but so is that bludger!" There's a collective groan from the crowd. "Ouch, that's got to hurt! You have to give credit to Perry - that was well hit, and well within the rules of the game. The Quaffle's still in play, and still with Puddlemere - Sanders in possession, demonstrating some first-class flying. It looks like Taylor may be injured, but she's not letting that stop her from supporting Sanders, ready to take a pass if absolutely necessary. Looks like one of her arms is temporarily out of action, but she'll still play with the other if it gives Puddlemere a chance at the hoops. And Sanders shoots- and scores! Thirty-ten to Puddlemere!"  
  
Dad whoops, then explains why. "To be honest I don't care who wins, but you can't just sit in silence when you're watching a Quidditch match."  
  
"...and Taylor's heading for the ground, towards the waiting team of mediwizards, and we'll just give them a minute to see whether a quick fix is possible..."  
  
"So, Ginny, what _is_ the situation with the house?"  
  
"Oh yes. The clean-up's finished; some Ministry official should be along on Thursday to makes sure it's been done properly and give us the all-clear to continue with the work. Then we're going to see about removing the invisibility charms without making the muggles suspicious. There's an Impervius Charm over the roof to protect what remains of the inside and to shelter the clean-up team."  
  
"...and it looks like Taylor's injury's more serious than we thought - she's refusing the stretcher, but she's walking off the pitch and Puddlemere are making a substitution - it's Wheaton, a young player who's barely made it off the bench so far in his professional Quidditch career but who has plenty of years ahead of him to change that, especially if he puts up a good show today - after all, all of the big names started off on the bench..."  
  
"Don't I know it," mutters Aunt Ginny.  
  
"So once the house has been cleared, you'll be on to rebuilding?" asks Mum, ignoring the Quidditch.  
  
"Yep. It'll be quite a task - they had to dismantle a lot of the house to decontaminate, and the dark magic residue had spread further than you'd expect. We're going to tell the muggles that there's an area of countryside that's been taken over by some big firm for redevelopment, and rather than let them demolish this lovely old black-and-white house we're having it dismantled and rebuilt here. There's a planning permission notice on the fence already."  
  
"...and already Wheaton's got his hands on the Quaffle, passing to Sanders, to Norton - beautiful Bludger evasion by Norton there - and back to Sanders - Wheaton - Sanders, coming in to the shooting area, the Keeper's in position - Sanders going to shoot - but Wheaton's got it - and through the right-hand hoop! Forty-ten to Puddlemere! And I'm not sure what happened there either, so we'll take a look at the slow-motion replay... there we go! A beautiful bluff from Sanders, making as if to shoot - but you see Wheaton, right there to the right? Sanders passes it across at the last minute and the young reserve redirects it straight through the hoop. The Keeper wasn't expecting it to come from that direction, and nor were we!"  
  
"Lovely," murmurs Aunt Ginny. "Stunning bit of Quidditch."  
  
Puddlemere eventually win (Portree do get in several more goals, enough to take the lead, but Puddlemere get the Snitch). Dad's been cheering every time either team scores, and whenever there's a good Bludger hit or a neat evasion. I try to compare the events in the commentary to what I know of flying from my experience on the special broom.  
  
Uncle George took me out as promised, saying that he'd played enough Quidditch matches and done enough training sessions in miserable weather to know it wouldn't do me any harm. It was weird, trusting this wooden stick to carry me, but great fun.  
  
"...Highlights of the match will be on at seven..."  
  
"Don't you dare," whispers Mum.  
  
"...but for now goodbye from Puddlemere. Despite the weather, fans celebrate a popular home win and even the few Prides supporters who've turned up have to admit that that was a fine exhibition of professional sport. The final score: Puddlemere United three hundred and forty, Pride of Portree two hundred and twenty. The news is next."  
  
As the theme music begins, Dad jumps up and accompanies Uncle Harry to the kitchen in search of tea and biscuits. The theme music changes to signal the start of the news. I'm sitting on the floor with Lily, talking about school and Hogwarts and not really paying attention until Mum calls out to bring the men back into the room.  
  
"It's Teddy, reading the news!"  
  
"Hello and welcome to WBC News. I'm Teddy Lupin,"  
  
"And I'm Susan Bones."  
  
"Today's top story: the first muggle-born Minister for Magic, Norbert Leach, died in St Mungo's today at the age of eighty-six. Norbert, popularly known as Nobby, held office from nineteen sixty-two to nineteen sixty-eight. His term in office was dominated by the debates over Squib Rights, a cause to which he leant his support, and which was marred by the nineteen sixty-four riots and ended as a result of false allegations regarding - among other subjects - financial matters. Reputation destroyed, he spent much of his life in isolation abroad. He eventually returned with his wife Amalie so that his daughter Sophie could attend Hogwarts, but did not appear in public until the memorial ceremony four years ago marking the fiftieth anniversary of the November fifth attacks."  
  
 _"I, Norbert Leach, do vow that as Minister for Magic I will devote myself to justice and to will serve the witches and wizards of Great Britain to the best of my ability. In times of trouble, I will be their shield and think not of my own comfort while others suffer. I lead by the grace of the people, and should they withdraw their grace I will surrender my powers without protest so that their chosen delegate may lead instead. I swear this in the name of Merlin, Prince of Enchanters, in the sight of the people."_  
  
"A momentous occasion: the moment when an ordinary man becomes Minister. Those same words have been spoken by every Minister to take office, almost since the position was created, and they are supposedly based at least in part on the writings of Merlin himself - Merlin, as we know, being responsible for the earliest form of the Ministry of Magic, including the introduction of a democratically elected leader."  
  
"That's a bit weird - the Merlin reference," Uncle Harry says. "When Kingsley took his vow, I just sort of accepted it, but thinking about it..."  
  
"It is odd. In the muggle world, it would be some reference to God - perhaps 'in the name of the Lord' or 'in the sight of God'. It doesn't make sense to swear 'in the name of Merlin' - he was only a wizard, if a great one, and playing a part in founding the Ministry doesn't justify the use of the name. It makes me wonder whether perhaps it started off as something else - perhaps a reference to God - and has been changed since in the search of some kind of independence from religion."  
  
"Maybe. It's very odd."  
  
"I think I'll look into it, actually. It might be interesting to see for how long this particular wording has been used, and to think about the possible cause for the change. And what the agenda was of the person or people responsible."  
  
"Only you, 'Mione," murmurs Dad.  
  
"Just because you have no interest in..."  
  
Uncle Harry acts as peacekeeper. "Not now! Come on, you two..."  
  
"Nothing wrong with being interested in it, 'Mione, just not many people would be..."  
  
"Ron! Stop talking." If Uncle Harry can't shut him up, his sister can. Well, maybe not shut him up, but change the subject.  
  
"Who're you to tell me whether I can or can't talk?"  
  
"Advice, Ron! It's something people give when they're trying to be nice - and just because you're a-"  
  
"Ginny!" warns Uncle Harry quickly.  
  
"-a thick-headed buffoon of a brother doesn't mean I can't be nice to you occasionally. Being nice is good for you - you should try it some time."  
  
"Some of us are trying to listen to the news," I point out, bringing the argument to an abrupt end.  
  
"...Norbert Leach has been surrounded by controversy. He devoted his life to serving his country but struggled at every stage against blood prejudice. While his contribution as Minister was limited by his situation, he paved the way for many of the reforms which have since come into being, including the Squib Rights Bill (which was originally responsible for much of the trouble). And the argument will arise yet again as to whether his achievements - and efforts - have received appropriate recognition. He was offered the Order of Merlin four times and on each occasion he declined. One of the questions now is whether it should be awarded posthumously - as many would advocate - or whether his refusals should be honoured..."  
  
"Well of course they should!" Mum interjects. "He didn't want it, so it's wrong to push it on him when he can no longer make his opinions heard."  
  
"I don't think he's going to be too bothered," Dad points out, then continues hastily, "I mean..."  
  
"I'd better go in," Uncle Harry says with a huge yawn, standing up.  
  
"What?" Aunt Ginny protests. "But it's your day off..."  
  
"You heard what Teddy said: controversy. The death of a major political figure, even one who was generally a recluse and who was unable to get much done in his political career. There have been far too many documentaries about him and the fifth of November attacks. And he was a very popular man, except with the blood-supremacists. For a start, Kingsley's going to want to meet with the Council and discuss the funeral and memorial arrangements. I have to be there. Plus we have to be ready, just in case there's trouble. No, you don't have to come, Ron, but be ready in case I do need to call you. I'll be back late; sorry, Lily, Ginny."   
  
He leaves the room and I hear him moving around upstairs, presumably changing into his robes. A little while later, there's a faint whooshing sound from the fireplace in the kitchen. Ginny sighs. "He's overworked enough as it is, without any of this fuss about funerals and memorial ceremonies. It seems all the big events these days are for remembering the past."  
  
"Release day at the shop," I point out. "That's not about remembering something; well, not really..." I remember Uncle George talking about his brother and the other people who died in the War. Maybe everything is about remembering the past. Well, there's a lot of past to remember... but then most of these events and documentaries and things seem to focus on the same event. Same two, at least: the War, and the fifth of November attacks.  
  
"That's not exactly a _national_ event," argues Aunt Ginny.  
  
"Try telling that to Uncle George," I reply.  
  
"And to the media!" Mum moans. "Although as far as the media are concerned, anything can be a national event if that's the best they've got on a particular day. Even this - yes, he left a legacy, and his term in office was certainly eventful. He was a good guy, but he didn't really achieve that much as Minister. And it's not like a declaration of war or anything that would really affect people."  
  
"Aunt Ginny works for the media," I point out. It may not be the sort of thing I ought to point out, but I did it anyway.  
  
"Yes, but she's not the kind of reporter I'm referring to-"  
  
"Oh, I know," says Aunt Ginny. "I think you're referring to the editors and managers. They're the ones who really want to makes sure everyone feels the need to buy the paper. And we go along with it; although the sports pages don't often cover matters of national importance!"  
  
"The England Quidditch team winning the World Cup would be a matter of national importance..." says Dad.  
  
"What, because it would a sign that the apocalypse was approaching?"  
  
"Something like that." Dad and Aunt Ginny share a resigned laugh.   
  
"Can we go to the World Cup?" Lily asks eagerly. "It's only over in Ireland - not far at all! And England are through to the play-offs this time..."  
  
"We'll see," says Aunt Ginny.  
  
"We went last time, and it was all the way over in... that desert place..."  
  
"Patagonia," I say. I remember it - far too much fuss from the press, being trapped in the VIP section 'for security reasons'. The Prophet made a lot of fuss about us being there, but Mum muttered repeatedly when reading the reports that really hardly anyone knew who we are, apart from the few British fans who'd turned up. As she said then, Voldemort barely left England, so they weren't really affected by him.  
  
"Yeah, that place. It'll be even easier to get to Ireland, with no time zone complications or anything. Can we go to the England games? Please, Mum?"  
  
"Games, plural? You're setting your hopes high, aren't you? As a matter of fact, I'll be over there anyway with work and your father will be involved in security for the team. Provided you behave yourself until then, you have a good chance of getting to at least one match."  
  
"Yay!" Lily jumps up and runs across to Aunt Ginny, and there's a muffled 'oof' and the chair creaks. "Can Hugo come?"  
  
"I said, if you're _good_."  
  
"I will be, I promise! Can Hugo come?"  
  
"It depends whether Hugo _wants_ to come," Mum says calmly. "If he does, why not? Ron'll be there, won't you?"  
  
"Oh, that's one job I _will_ be volunteering for! Team security for the Quidditch World Cup, complete with access to restricted areas! And it's being organised by the British and Irish Quidditch association, which is affiliated with both Ministries, so if they have any difficulties finding security personnel over there..."  
  
"I'm not convinced they're going to rely on British match security," Mum points out. "Not after... no, ignore me..." she tails off without finishing what she was going to say.  
  
"Normal people would just get tickets, not try to get a job as part of it," Aunt Ginny points out. "Not that there's anything wrong with trying for the job, but if that fails..."  
  
"You'll be there anyway, as reporter. That would be enough excuse for us all to go, wouldn't it?"  
  
"No, it wouldn't. I've reported on a lot of league and group stage matches without you being there, and we don't follow you around on all of your jobs. If you can't get a job relating to the Cup, get tickets like everyone else and go because you want to." Aunt Ginny says it firmly. "Anyway, it would be pretty ludicrous if I were to end up taking all of my brothers with me because I'm reporting."  
  
"Ah, but it's not all of your brothers, just your favourite..."  
  
"No, Ron. Find your own way to get there. You're not just tagging along with me. As I said, buy tickets. You didn't insist on going with me when I went trailing round all the British broom-makers analysing the differences between them... And you bought tickets for Patagonia, remember?"  
  
Mum cuts across the conversation. "So, Nobby Leach... I met him four years ago, at the riots memorial. A really lovely guy - and despite all he'd been through, he wasn't bitter in the slightest. Lost a lot of confidence, perhaps, but still an amazing speaker."  
  
"Didn't he say something about the fact that the people behind the fifth of November attacks were worse than the Death Eaters?"  
  
"Yes, that's right. He said it was because they killed random people just who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, while the Death Eaters chose their victims. It takes a lot of courage to challenge people's beliefs like that."  
  
"What's the difference?" I challenge Mum. "Didn't they target him just because he was muggle-born? For the same reason as the Death Eaters attacked people?"  
  
"I probably can't put it as well as him, but- the Death Eaters killed muggles and muggle-borns because they were, well, muggles and muggle-borns. And they targeted those whom Voldemort told them to target. The people responsible for the riots did it because Norbert was a muggle-born, but they didn't attack him; they attacked random people as a warning to him. People who they didn't know anything about, just to send a message."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." History seems to be full of people killing other people, and mostly because of blood status. It's a depressing topic which comes up all of the time. "Is it still raining?"  
  
"Um... no, I don't think so!"  
  
"Let's go outside. Before it starts again... hey! Can me and Lily-"  
  
"Lily and I," corrects Mum automatically.  
  
"Whatever. Can we go flying?"  
  
"We'll have to find somewhere away from the muggles..."  
  
"There's the hill where we built the igloo. Or Granny and Grandad's."  
  
"Mum'd be happy to see us," Aunt Ginny agrees. "You know she's always saying we can come over whenever we like. Shall I floo call?"  
  
"If it's not too forward to invite ourselves round..."  
  
"You know she loves having people over, 'Mione," says Dad. "Just make sure it's okay, Ginny, then we'll get Hugo's broom."  
  
"I suppose. Well, we'd better get over there quickly, before it starts raining again."  
  
"I've flown in the rain often enough and it never did me any damage," says Dad calmly.  
  
"Well..." Mum teases.  
  
"It wasn't the flying in the rain that was responsible," Aunt Ginny says. "I've played in more storms than he has!"  
  
"Maybe it does have some effect..." says Dad cheekily.  
  
Aunt Ginny makes the floo call then tells us that Granny's happy to see us. Dad goes home to collect my broom, while the rest of us floo straight to the Burrow.  
  
"Hugo! Lily! Lovely to see you. Come along through. Lucy's in the living room..." Granny, as welcoming as ever.  
  
"Lucy?"  
  
"Your Uncle Percy is a great believer in the tradition of visiting grandparents on Sundays," she says, with a clear hint. "I mean it when I say you can come over whenever you like."  
  
She's cut off by Lucy jumping up and running over. "Lily! Hugo! I didn't know you were coming!"  
  
"Nor did we, until just now," Lily explains. "Hugo's family came to see ours, then when it stopped raining Hugo suggested we go flying. We need somewhere that muggles won't see us."  
  
"Well don't go in there; Dad's talking about the Quidditch World Cup. You'd think that would be an interesting topic of conversation, but when it's all about the political situation in every single participant nation and the economic benefits to the hosts it's perhaps not so interesting."  
  
"You didn't watch Puddlemere versus Portree this morning, did you?" asks Lily as we head for the back door.  
  
"No, we hardly ever get to watch sport on TV. Apparently we'll get square eyes if we spend too much time in front of the box, and Dad thinks I should be studying because I struggle a bit with lessons. You know Mum teaches me? Well she says I work hard enough in lessons so I should do non-school-y things the rest of the time. But more going for walks and drawing and cooking than watching TV. I mean I do like doing those things, but I like Quidditch too."  
  
"Well, Puddlemere won. And we can go and play... well, maybe not Quidditch, seeing as there are only three of us, but we can fly and throw a Quaffle around."  
  
"You're flying too, Hugo?" I have to give Lucy credit for trying, but she still fails to keep the surprise out of her voice.  
  
I don't mind; it's perfectly understandable. In the past, I've always been stuck inside when the rest of the cousins have flown. "Remember Release Day? Al's winning design? Uncle George gave me one of those brooms, and it really does work!"  
  
"Oh yes, I forgot about that! You reckon you can actually play Quidditch on it? Or at least pass a Quaffle?"  
  
I shrug. "I dunno. Hopefully." Dad arrives with my broom and we start by just flying a bit. Then we race - with me in the middle and one of them on each side to give me more bearings, and while Lucy wins I'm not all that far behind. It's definitely more than just a toy broom.  
  
Playing with the Quaffle goes less well. After the first few tries, I sort of get a feel for it approaching, but even if I get my hands up and manage to touch it I can't get a grip. I quickly get bored of being hit on the head or chest and abandon the game, leaving Lily and Lucy to pass while I fly around and around the little pitch. A light drizzle starts up, not enough to drive us inside but enough to dampen my face and slowly weigh down my hair and clothes so they no longer ripple back as a result of the speed at which I'm moving.  
  
Silent rainfall. Muting sounds, sinking into everything and leaving it cold and damp. The kind of cold that you don't notice creeping up on you, as your fingers grow numb on the wet slippery handle of your broom. I keep flying, lost in the sensation of the tiny drops that prick my face. Cold, fresh, freedom.


	17. Forms of Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral for Norbert Leach takes place in the Atrium of the Ministry. There are already a lot of people there when Mum and I arrive and she guides me across to our seats. There's a sombre mood, as befits a funeral, little sound beyond low murmuring and the scuffling of feet on the polished floor.

**Chapter Seventeen - Forms of Courage**  
  
   
  
The funeral for Norbert Leach takes place in the Atrium of the Ministry. There are already a lot of people there when Mum and I arrive and she guides me across to our seats. There's a sombre mood, as befits a funeral, little sound beyond low murmuring and the scuffling of feet on the polished floor.  
  
The cushions on the seats turn out to be little more than ornamentation. I sit back on mine, arms folded across my chest, and wonder where Dad is. Practically the entire DMLE are on duty, apparently, because of the nature of the occasion. Nobby Leach attracted enough controversy during his lifetime, and there's no reason to suspect that'll abate with his death. More likely it'll be taken as a final opportunity to put across their opinions.  
  
Mum's tense, not releasing my hand even after we've sat down until I wriggle my fingers to remind her to let go. She says very little, beyond 'here are our seats' and 'hello, everyone'. She doesn't even greet any of the aunts and uncles by name - not Aunt Ginny or Uncle George or anyone. All of the various greetings called over are answered with terse 'good afternoon's and to all of the 'how are you/Hugo/Ron's it's 'very well, thank you'.  
  
It all seems peaceful enough, so I wonder what she can see that's putting her on edge. Maybe it's the Aurors and Law Enforcers that Dad said would be stationed in force in the Atrium. I know they're there but it's kind of an... abstract concept. Not like having constant proof that they _are_ on guard.  
  
"Mrs Weasley," says a slow voice, with clearly forced politeness.  
  
"Mr Malfoy." Mum makes considerably less effort to sound polite. Someone she'd rather not be talking to. Malfoy, Malfoy... oh yes, I remember. Dad especially has mentioned him on occasion, never in a particularly generous manner. Scorpius' father. None of the cousins have mentioned Scorpius at all, as far as I can remember, apart from Rose's letter saying that he's in Hufflepuff. Maybe his name's popped up in passing, but not for anything particularly significant.  
  
"I would like to..."  
  
"Yes?" Mum says, too sharply, and Mr Malfoy flounders.  
  
"I... um... I just thought I would come and say hello." Clearly there was more to it than that, but he's lost the confidence to say it.  
  
"Oh." She knows that's not true, but she's not going to argue or press for the truth. "Well, you've said it. Is there anything else?"  
  
"I would... No, not really. Oh, my son has mentioned your daughter in several of his letters. Apparently she is the brightest in at least most of her classes."  
  
"Oh. Rose has not mentioned your son beyond the House he was Sorted into."  
  
"No, I'm... Scorpius works hard, but he is an average student. Not at the bottom of the class or the top. And he's always been very quiet." It's hard for Mr Malfoy to admit it, I can tell. Mum doesn't bother to think of a response, just leaves the silence hanging thick and awkward. On and on it stretches, and I feel the same discomfort as at any such silence.  
  
"Hello Mr Malfoy!" I say, standing up. "I'm Hugo." Mum lets out a slight hiss of breath, places her hand gently on my arm, but I shake it off and hold out my hand. "Nice to meet you." I wonder whether he's staring at me, wondering whether I'm an idiot and why I decided to speak to him. I'd probably have been better off staying silent.  
  
"Good afternoon, Hugo." The hand that grips mine is firm, surprising after the nervousness the man's already displayed. Mr Malfoy is used to dealing with people. Just not Mum. But I'm surprised, after all Dad's said about him, with how polite he is to me. Speaking to me like an adult.  
  
"So, um, you knew Mum and Dad at school..." Bad comment, I know immediately, but it's too late to take it back. "Was Mum always as bossy as she is now?" I ask cheekily, with a grin. Please, please can they both recognise it as a joke.  
  
"Always. And with good reason; you do as she tells you, young man, because she seems to know what she's talking about. If she thinks something's dangerous or wrong, chances are she's right. The brightest with of her age, as I was never willing to admit back then. It appears your sister's following in her footsteps."  
  
"Rose knows a lot," I admit. "I'm better at lots of things, though."  
  
"I'm sure you are." And just as I was getting to like him, a stupid condescending grown-up remark. "Books aren't everything. You're very confident, you know."  
  
"Not usually. I guess I'm just in the mood for talking today." More like I can't stop now I've started. I stood up on an impulse, and now I'm trapped until I manage to get through this conversation or someone saves me. And I'm not going to rely on Mum managing to find anything polite to say. Normally she's really good at dealing with people - or at least with getting them to do what she wants them too - but it appears she makes an exception for Mr Malfoy.  
  
"Hugo," Mum interrupts, apparently managing to make herself say something. "The ceremony's about to start. We had better let Mr Malfoy return to his seat." The end of the sentence is a clear dismissal.  
  
"It was nice to meet you, Hugo," says Mr Malfoy, and it actually sounds like genuine politeness, not just veiled scorn. "Mrs Weasley." Mum's name slips off his tongue hesitantly, a tiny catch I can't quite discern. Robes swish as sharp footsteps turn and strut off purposefully along the line of the seats. I sit back down.  
  
"Why did you talk to him?" Mum hisses.  
  
"You were being rude and it was awkward. He was trying to be polite; I decided to speak up before you started fighting. I know Dad criticises him a lot, but he seems nice enough to me."  
  
"He's an old-school pure-blood. You didn't know him at school."  
  
"Is he? It's _ages_ since you went to school; he's probably different now." Mum doesn't answer, just shifts so that her chair creaks. "Are they actually starting?"  
  
"People have stopped coming in, and the Law Enforcers have moved into their positions for the ceremony. They look really alert now, so I think it's about to start. And there's movement by the main door..." I feel the shift in mood before she's finished speaking. The murmuring fades into the odd cough or sniff, feet grow still, and near-silence presses down. Then, from somewhere over the other side of the hall, a drum sounds.  
  
And another, and another, a slow solemn beat. A second drum joins, like a heartbeat. The only sound breaking the silence. I feel a sudden urge to laugh and force it down - everyone would notice, not to mention that it's a funeral.  
  
Then someone behind me coughs quietly and the mood seems to lighten a little. People change position, a soft continual undertone of shuffling and sniffing. Over at the end with the drums, a band strikes up a funeral march, beginning to move towards the centre of the room.  
  
Mum's voice is soft in my ear, her breath hot and tickly. "There's a procession coming from the door towards the space in the centre of the room. Flanked by Aurors, your Dad among them. At the front is the band, setting the pace."   
  
There's a pause before she continues, as the procession draw closer. "Behind them come the Wizengammot, four abreast, in official purple robes with hats and badges. And hovering behind them is the coffin, draped in Ministry-purple cloth with a bouquet of purple and white flowers on top. And there's a woman on each side, probably his wife and daughter.  
  
"And behind the coffin is the Minister, with the Council - the small group who discuss new legislation with the Minister, made up of Heads of Department and a few other elected or appointed members - just behind. Uncle Harry's with them, as Head Auror. Then behind that, representatives from various organisations - Hogwarts, Gringotts, St Mungo's, and a couple of others that I don't recognise."  
  
It sounds like rather a case of 'turn up and be seen' combined with 'let's make this look impressive by having lots of people', but I guess it probably _is_ impressive.  
  
"The band have moved to stand in front of the platform, while the Wizengammot are climbing steps and sitting down in chairs on the raised area. The coffin's hovering in the centre of the dais, and everyone except for the Minister are also sitting down." The band stop playing, and once again a tense silence reigns. Mum sits normally as someone - I assume it's the Minister - begins to speak.  
  
"We are gathered today to celebrate the life of a great man, who rose from nothing to become one of the most influential wizards of the twentieth century. Most of us remember the two wizarding wars and the struggle against Voldemort, in which a great many heroes were discovered."  
  
"Harry Potter!" someone shouts from the middle of the crowd. There's a flurry of whispering. Kingsley waits a moment for it to die down before continuing.  
  
"The suffered greatly, risked everything to save those they loved. But there is another hero, often overlooked, perhaps greater than all of our more well-known heroes. A man who stuck to his beliefs although it would have been easier to give up, who fought even if no-one else saw his war. He fought for equality, for an end to prejudice, when it would have been easier to pretend that it did not exist."  
  
"In the wizarding wars, it would have been impossible to ignore the problems. People were being tortured, imprisoned, and killed. Norbert Leach, when he first came to power, faced a different kind of prejudice, less noticeable but perhaps more dangerous for it. A poison which seeped into everyday life, calm beliefs left unchallenged for centuries. Norbert Leach would be the one to challenge them."  
  
"My uncle, Philip Shacklebolt, was Head Auror throughout Mr Leach's time in office and was fortunate enough to work closely with him during that time. They were more than colleagues, certainly, with mutual respect and a friendship which persisted outside of Ministry walls. I was not born until several years after Mr Leach had left the country, and so I did not have the opportunity to meet him until four years ago. However my uncle had many tales of the man for whom he held such great esteem."  
  
"I wish that my uncle could be here, but he was killed in the First Wizarding War along with so many others. He told me many tales, not just of the Minister, but of the man who was forced to doubt himself so often but who never gave up on his beliefs, and of the man who would always go out of his way to help a person in need, who was always punctual, and who refused to accept the age-old line that 'it has always been done that way'. But while I can tell you the stories, there is a woman who was herself by his side throughout his time in office. Rachel Greengrass."  
  
"Ah!" Mum whispers in sudden realisation, but no explanation is forthcoming. There's near silence as people move around on the platform, before a new voice speaks up.  
  
"As personal assistant to the Minister for Magic, I sometimes wonder whether I saw more of him than his own family. The word that springs to mind when I think of Mr Leach: dedication. He was always punctual, arriving in the office at five minutes to eight unless he had a meeting. He always knew at the start of every meeting exactly what he wanted, so no time was wasted and the meetings could finish early. I know that all of the speechwriters who worked for him very much appreciated his decisive manner."  
  
"Of course we are all speaking of his professional life. That is because, for the most part, that was his life. He lived alone, working long hours at the Ministry and probably spending still more time once he had gone home preparing for the next day. Often he seemed afraid to relax, being used to defending himself against constant hostility. Yes, that would be the one real flaw in his character: he was always on his guard. But who can blame him? His constant vigilance protected him on many occasions."  
  
There's a great deal more speaking, from some people who've met him a couple of times and also from those who  came to know him after he'd left the country. His wife describes him as "a private man, very quiet and polite. He didn't like to talk about himself or his past." From his daughter, I get the first impression of a normal man. She describes him as a normal father, talking about the things he would and wouldn't let her do and how he helped her to apply for healer training and find somewhere to live.  
  
I lose focus before the end, my mind wandering over what I'm going to write next for Kelly. Miss Scott went to see her in hospital and brought back a message, which included that Kelly especially liked the story and could we write more for her? I immediately promised that I would, and I have every intention of keeping that promise. I just need to think of something interesting to write about.  
  
The band pulls my attention back to the present, away from planning my story about a nice werewolf. Everyone stands up, and Mum takes my elbow to draw me up too. We stand still, like everyone around, and I wonder whether there's anything we're supposed to be doing or looking at while we stand here.  
  
A collective "ooh" sounds all around, and Mum once again whispers in my ear.  
  
"The coffin just burst into flames, and out of the flames burst a flock of doves. They're flying around above us now. The coffin's stopped burning, leaving a small box. They're going to seal it in an alcove in one of the walls later, along with a plaque, but not until the crowd's out of the way."  
  
Before long, people are making their way out. I hear Mum sit down again and follow her example, waiting for the majority of those gathered to leave. I'm not sure whether we're waiting for something in particular or just allowing other people to leave first so we don't get caught in a crush.  
  
"Where's Dad?" I ask while we're waiting.  
  
"By the fireplaces, making sure people queue properly."  
  
"What about other people? Uncle Harry, the Minister... have the rest of the family gone yet? Aunt Ginny and Lily and that lot..."  
  
"Uncle Harry's with the Minister and a few other officials on the platform, still with his hand on his wand.  Aunt Ginny and Lily are also waiting for him. As for the rest of the family, most have gone or are on their way out..." She tails off, her attention apparently caught by something. Some unwelcome sight. "Oh..." Others apparently notice the same as her, as first the room falls silent then Ministry officials begin to speak urgently to each other.  
  
"What?" I say, my voice instinctively low. She doesn't answer, but drops my hand. Her robes swish softly, then I hear a firm _Scrougify_.  
  
"Hermione!" Dad runs over from by the fireplaces.  
  
"...destroyed evidence..." I hear someone else say, as Ministry officials appear to converge on us.  
  
"I don't care if I've destroyed evidence," snaps Mum, clearly shaken. "You know why they did it. They want publicity. And leaving it there, making a big fuss about tracking down the culprits? That's just the fuss they want. It's unlikely you could have traced them anyway; they'll obviously have taken precautions. Do you really want to play into their hands? Make a huge fuss, launch an investigation, and then have to confess that you've failed to find those responsible? Besides, there was enough fuss about Norbert Leach during his lifetime. Can he not be offered a little respect in death?"  
  
"She's right," says the Minister evenly. "Harry, it might be best if this incident were forgotten."  
  
"Lodged as a closed case," Uncle Harry corrects firmly. "Let's not give them any reason to accuse us of a cover-up. I'll write the report later: graffiti on the Memorial Fountain, fully removed, no further action taken. In fact that shouldn't be an Auror matter at all; I'll have the Magical Maintenance team record the incident and send someone round later to remove any magical residue."  
  
"No specific details of the graffiti," Mum insists.  
  
"No need. It may be unpleasant language, but it's still classed as graffiti. Common vandalism. Regardless of intentions."  
  
I notice Lily has crept up next to me and whisper to her, "what did it say?" The grown-ups don't want to say, because by the sound of it it's something rude and disrespectful, but it's not fair that everyone else got to read it and I don't know what it says. The choice of words was clearly important, judging by how they're talking about it.  
  
"The 'M' word," says Lily very quietly, under the cover of the grown-ups talking. "In red paint on the fountain. Aunt Hermione got rid of it as soon as she saw it."  
  
"When did it appear? Everyone seemed to notice it at the same time, right before she vanished it."  
  
"I'm not sure. I noticed it about the same time as everyone else. I think one person saw and other people saw them looking and turned too, and more people noticed everyone already looking and... if you know what I mean."  
  
"Hugo! We'd best be going!" Mum tugs my hand and with a quick goodbye I follow her.  
  
"I thought we were waiting for Dad..."  
  
"No, just for the crush to die down. He'll be needed for a while yet." She pushes me forwards, towards to fireplace, and I can hear that she's just thrown the floo powder in for me.  
  
"Now, Ginny, no articles on that!" I hear Uncle Harry say from the middle of the atrium.  
  
"Of course not! What do you take me for?"  
  
"Oh, I know you wouldn't. I'd put an official press silence in place, but that would be making a fuss..." I whizz off up the fireplace, leaving the rest of the conversation behind.  
  
The graffiti does make it into the news, of course, although how they found out nobody knows. Apparently St Mungo's isn't the only place with confidentiality issues. It's hardly surprising, the Atrium of the Ministry being a public place - and of course the people who wrote the graffiti must know all about it. It's mentioned on the news, on the TV, but with little more than the wording Uncle Harry said would be used to write the report - graffiti on the memorial fountain, removed immediately. Uncle Harry probably spoke to them.  
  
There's very little fuss, though, nothing like what Mum was afraid of. After all of the security worries for the funeral, and the panic when the graffiti was noticed, it feels like an anticlimax. Obviously it's good that the stuff they were afraid of didn't happen - and maybe it didn't happen because of how worried everyone was and the resulting precautions - but I can't help feeling the tiniest twinge of disappointment. There's all of the talk about fighting and riots in the past, but everything's boring now. I shouldn't think that, but I can't help it.  
  
One day, I hope I'll have a chance to prove I can do as much as everyone else. Yes, my parents and aunts and uncles are all war heroes. How can I live up to that if I don't have any opportunities? Of course I don't want a war... just a chance to prove I'm brave and strong and not just "Ron and Hermione's blind son". Maybe I could do it some other way. Not by fighting, but by being Minister for Magic or by inventing something important. Like Al's already invented the blindfold broom.  
  
What am I good at? Writing, I guess, and music. But I'm not going to get famous by playing the piano! It's not like the Weird Sisters. I'm not sure I want to be like the Weird Sisters, actually, having everyone talking about my private life. That seems to happen to all famous people. Maybe I'd be better off not being famous.  
  
But I already am. I was in the news before I was born - "war heroes expecting second child" or something. Everyone knows I'm "Ron and Hermione's blind son". If I'm going to be famous, I'd rather it was for something I've done rather than because of my parents. I just don't know what I could do.  
  
I think about the funeral, and the man it was for. They always say he had everything against him when he became Minister. He was the first muggle-born Minister for Magic; I could be the first blind Minister for Magic, or the first blind Quidditch captain... okay, maybe not Quidditch captain, but something. Maybe one day everyone'll be gathered in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic for my funeral, all in best robes and marching and making speeches about what a great person I was... yeah, maybe I don't really want to think about that now. While having a grand funeral would be cool, I wouldn't exactly be able to enjoy it!


	18. A Desert Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was the plan, anyway. Practise my instruments, eat tea, then write. It all goes according to plan until I sit down at my desk, realise I've left my bag with my first draft and Brailler downstairs, go to get it, and hear Mum opening the window to let an owl into the kitchen. Story forgotten, I stick my head around the door.

**Chapter Eighteen - A Desert Island**  
  
   
  
The days seem to drag, but a couple of months later I look back and remember only a blur of going to school and going home and going to school and going home again. It's crazy to think that Easter's closing in already, and in a few weeks' time Rose and the rest will be back from Hogwarts. It's been a normal couple of  months, with Dad doing normal Auror things and Mum working on house-elf rights.  
  
The car pulls up in front of the school and I open the door to hop out. A quick "bye, Dad!" and I've found the railings, following them to the entrance to the school and then passing through reception into the corridors. I'm the first of our class in the common room today (it's the first day back after half term, and Mum started pestering Dad to get a move on and go or I'd be late. As always happens on that kind of day, we arrived early). I flop down on the beanbags, wondering how early I actually am and how long I'll have to wait for the next person to turn up.  
  
Only perhaps five minutes, the two pairs of footsteps cross the room, one firm and the other faltering. One of the people, apparently a teacher, murmurs something I can't quite catch, then a shaky voice greets me. "Hey, Hugo! It's Kelly."  
  
"Kelly! Welcome back!" She claims her usual beanbag, one that's been left empty while she's been gone. "How, um..."  
  
"You're the only one here?"  
  
"So far, yep."  
  
She asks me about my holiday, steering away from talking too much about her illness. As we wait for lessons to start, and more of the class arrive and welcome her back, I pick up odd facts. She's been out of hospital for two weeks, but went to a beach somewhere in Wales to get her strength back.  
  
"Oh, and thanks for the stories, Hugo!"  
  
"You liked them?"  
  
"That was the best bit of being in hospital. You'd never have written me stories otherwise - not that it'd be worth getting in there just for the sake of the stories." She falls silent, and I fill the gap.  
  
"You never know, I might write more..."  
  
"Really? You would?"  
  
"Maybe." I'd never normally let anyone read my stories, but if she likes them... it's funny, thinking that someone actually likes the stuff I write. I think of my desk drawer, with its stack of rejected stories. Most of them I couldn't share with muggles, because of the statute. Wouldn't want to, anyway - I'm embarrassed by some of the nonsense in that drawer. I could write more stories for Kelly, though, funny little things with animals and based on bits of the magical world. She's probably not too bothered about things like literary merit.  
  
I have my piano lesson, and when I come back I wander round the classroom figuring out where everyone is. The others are spread around, knitting or collage-making or making clay models. Miss Scott is helping Kelly make a donkey mask, as she promised way back at the nativity play. Aidan has his music lesson after mine, so he's not back yet. I sit down on my own in a clean corner, my Brailler in front of me, and try to think of something to write.  
  
A sea-serpent, I decide. Wrapping itself around a ship to sink it, the crew leaping into a lifeboat to flee the scene. The terrified captain insists on staying behind on the stricken ship because there isn't enough room on the lifeboat. He's convinced he is going to drown, but as he struggles to stay above the waves he catches the attention of the sea-serpent, who...  
  
At this point I plan to have the sea-serpent be impressed by his bravery and carry him to shore, but that would be predictable. Instead, the sea-serpent tries to eat him but he suddenly has an idea and clings onto her neck out of reach. The serpent dives, and realising he can't hold his breath any longer he lets go and kicks to the surface, finding a bit of broken ship to cling onto. When the serpent surfaces, he manages to cling to its neck again, and frustrated it tries to shake him off, swinging its head wildly until at the peak of a swing he lets go and soars through the air, ending up in the sea just off a desert island. The sea-serpent doesn't bother to look for him, but sinks back under the water and goes in search of another ship to sink.  
  
The captain is trapped on a desert island, and I realise I've got fodder for a series of stories now. A short story with multiple chapters. I've never written anything longer than one chapter, but that might be about to change. I set a new sheet of paper in the Brailler, jiggling it into position, and begin chapter two: the captain's adventures on the island.  
  
A very close run with cannibals, a failed attempt to attract a passing ship, an encounter with a crocodile whilst fishing, climbing up a tree to get fruit and being attacked by monkeys (monkeys sound like the kind of thing one would find on a desert island), making friends with a parrot and teaching it to talk; all of those constitute further chapters. Obviously I don't get all of those done by the end of the lesson, but over the next few weeks I'll work on them. Mr Benedict sees me when we're packing away and gives me a folder to put the pages in so they don't get ruined in my bag. I'll edit and type them out again tonight.  
  
That was the plan, anyway. Practise my instruments, eat tea, then write. It all goes according to plan until I sit down at my desk, realise I've left my bag with my first draft and Brailler downstairs, go to get it, and hear Mum opening the window to let an owl into the kitchen. Story forgotten, I stick my head around the door.  
  
"Which one is it?" I ask. Probably a letter from Rose; she usually writes every week, but we haven't had anything for at least ten days. Of course it might be something boring and official for Mum, relating to house-elf rights.  
  
"I'm not sure. It's official... and that's the Hogwarts seal..."  
  
Has Rose won some award? Or is it about me? It would make sense for them to get in touch early, because there's so much that would need to be thought about before I could go. It might be a letter saying that they can't take me, giving plenty of warning so Mum and Dad can arrange another school and to not keep me waiting for as long.  
  
Mum sits down and takes a minute to tell me the contents of the letter. "They've got spattergroit at Hogwarts. This is just a letter to all the parents, to tell us it's happening. Normally students are pulled out of Hogwarts if they get it, but because so many students have already developed symptoms and it's highly contagious they've decided to contain it within the school. No students will be going home until it's over and there's no risk of further cases."  
  
"Spattergroit. That's serious, I guess..?"  
  
"More unpleasant than dangerous. You get purple blisters all over your skin and once it's reached your throat you can't talk. It can take months to recover, and sometimes the blisters leave scars. There's one kind, cerebrumous spattergroit, which causes confusion and memory loss too; but I think the letter would say if it was that kind."  
  
"But it must be serious if they're sending letters to all the parents about it..."  
  
"I'd be very angry if they didn't keep us informed. It's really contagious, and in a place like a school - especially a boarding school - it would spread very quickly. A lot of students are probably infected already, even if they're not showing symptoms. It makes sense to insist that everyone stays at school, because it keeps the disease contained and it's too late to prevent it from spreading within the school. They'll be taking precautions, of course, and they'll be well set up to identify and treat cases. The letter also says that students can't directly send letters or packages - although we can send letters to them. Everything has to be disinfected before leaving the school."  
  
"That's why Rose hasn't written this week, then."  
  
"Probably, yes."  
  
"She'll be let out by the Quidditch World Cup, won't she?" Dad got the tickets last week - the Aurors are involved in security arrangements, but he's bought tickets for the opening ceremony and England's first match for the rest of us.  
  
"I expect so! That's five months away. Don't worry about it, Hugo."  
  
There's a loud crack, footsteps up the front path, then the doorbell rings and Mum goes to answer it. "Have you seen..?" Aunt Ginny is flustered, but Mum hushes her while she closes the door and guides the visitor into the living room. I can still hear them clearly from the kitchen.  
  
"Tea?"  
  
"Uh... please." There's a clanking from the shelf and cutlery draw as crockery and a teaspoon soar out of the kitchen. A tin opens and closes, presumably releasing tea bags. Sometimes Mum makes tea the muggle way, apparently how her parents taught her to do it; but especially when people visit or she has something else to do, she just uses magic because it's quicker. "You got a letter too?"  
  
"About the spattergroit?" Mum sounds perfectly calm, more so than she was when she was talking to me a few minute ago. The same can't be said of Aunt Ginny.  
  
"Yes! So if they do get it... we can't visit them or anything..."  
  
"That would defy the point of a quarantine, wouldn't it?"  
  
"I suppose, it's just... if Al were to get it, I don't know how I'd cope not being able to look after him. It would be bad enough with James, but James is the kind who can bounce back from anything. Al's different. You remember him as a baby?"  
  
"Oh yes. He always looked so lost. Fussy eater, too!"  
  
"Never really got over that, although he's better now. You know lots of kids are like that - very picky about what they eat. It's either that or stuffing whatever they can lay their hands on into their mouth. But yes, he was a difficult baby. It's hard thinking of him at boarding school, having to let other people look after him. Especially as it can take a while to get to understand him. You have to spot what he's thinking, because it's rare he'll actually say it straight out. The idea of him being looked after by strangers..."  
  
"Well, you don't get a choice in the matter. You know Hannah - she's a good nurse. They'll have extra Healers in from St Mungo's if it gets too much for her to cope alone, and you know they're selective."  
  
"Let's not talk about the trustworthiness of the St Mungo's healers."  
  
"They're good healers, and well qualified, even if they're lacking in some ways. Hannah wouldn't take any nonsense, and nor would any of the teachers. Actually, you've reminded me - you should write an article on this for the Prophet."  
  
Aunt Ginny gives a strained laugh. "Just because I'm a reporter doesn't mean..."  
  
"I'm serious. You should volunteer to write the article on it, before someone else does. Don't let it be exaggerated so that all of the parents in the country start panicking. It's a spattergroit outbreak, and there are good controls in place. Spattergroit isn't really dangerous, not like dragon pox. As a parent, you'd give the article a more personal touch - tell the editor that. It makes sense for you to do it, and better you than any of those sensationalist idiots."  
  
"I suppose. I've only done the sports pages before, but if I get in quick I might be able to convince the editor. As you say, I've got that personal touch, having the children at Hogwarts. In fact if I want to get it, I should probably request as soon as possible before someone else is given the story. Hopefully the news hasn't made it out yet but..."  
  
"The only things that don't hit the news are those someone's trying to publicise."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Remembering why I originally came downstairs, I find my Brailler and folder and go back to my room. Mum and Aunt Ginny can talk for ages about nothing in particular. I hear the faint strains of Quidditch on the wireless coming from Mum and Dad's room, but don't bother going to talk to Dad. He'll be happy listening to the match coverage.  
  
The next day, I have the first chapter of my story ready for Kelly. I give it to her at the end of the day, as we're on the way out, so that I won't be too nearby when she reads it. Knowing that she was sitting in the same room, reading my work, would be awkward; I'd be worrying about whether she was enjoying it, but not wanting to ask just in case she didn't and because it might make me sound really insecure or demanding, and I'd feel a bit like I was putting her under pressure to like it.  
  
The spattergroit at Hogwarts is in the news every day, for the first week as a headline then afterwards slipping in importance beneath celebrity "scandals" and Quidditch World Cup talk (team selection, security fears, concerns over whether the stadia will be done on time; the worries which have surrounded every major sporting event I can remember. Not that there's much new to say about the spattergroit, just that there isn't really much else for them to put in the news.  
  
There is one new story: more than a week after the outbreak is first announced, they discover that it is cerebrumous spattergroit. Mum finds out in a letter from the school a few hours before it makes it into the news. We tune in as we always do - Teddy reads it, for a start, plus we want to know if there's anything we haven't been told about yet. The familiar theme music starts up, then Teddy's voice begins the familiar introduction.  
  
"Hello and welcome to WBC News. I'm Teddy Lupin,"  
  
"And I'm Susan Bones."  
  
"Our top story tonight: as the first young spattergroit patients at Hogwarts succumb further to the disease, symptoms show that it is in fact cerebrumous spattergroit. We have Healer Payne, head of the St Mungo's Medical Research Centre in Ireland, to explain the differences. Also in tonight's news: will the Quidditch World Cup stadium be complete in time for the opening ceremony in July? Building work is said to be behind schedule."  
  
"The England National Quidditch Team have confirmed Oliver Wood as their new assistant coach. Will the last-minute addition to the support team disrupt preparations, or will it provide a valuable new perspective on the current team, helping to focus these last months of training time?"  
  
"Engall's Ice Cream Parlour has won an award in the International Magical Cuisine Association in their annual awards ceremony for 'best independent food outlet', beating thousands of nominees from around the world. And Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes has confirmed that their Diagon Alley store will indeed be moving to new, larger, and purpose-built premises. The new store is set to open in late July. We’ll be speaking to manager George Weasley to see what he can tell us about the move. But first, over to Seamus for more on the spattergroit situation at Hogwarts."  
  
There's a slight pause, before Seamus takes over. "Hello, Teddy. Now as you probably know, twelve days ago letters were sent to parents of students at Hogwarts advising them of a severe outbreak of spattergroit in the school. The decision to contain the infection within the castle has been a controversial one, but one supported by the advice of the St Mungo's healers. The situation within the castle has been monitored carefully, and earlier today it was revealed that the illness is not simply spattergroit but a rare strain known by the unwieldy name of cerebrumous spattergroit. I'm here at the St Mungo's Medical Research Centre in Ireland, with head of the institution and chief researcher Michael Payne, who will explain the differences between normal and cerebrumous spattergroit."  
  
"Sure, that's right." Healer Payne has a calm kind of voice, unhurried and with an accent stronger than Seamus'. "Most people probably know the symptoms of spattergroit: purple pastules, or blisters, particularly on the face, and temporary loss of speech as the disease develops. Cerebrumous spattergroit also affects the mind, causing memory loss and confusion. In most cases, the memory loss just means that the patient remembers nothing of the illness, occasionally also deleting memories from immediately before the illness. Sometimes it can lead to a slight reduction in short-term memory capabilities, which can generally be recovered through therapy. In some cases the disease can be more severe, damaging both short- and long-term memory. This can result in lapses such as the classic "where did I leave my glasses?", forgetting what they've just been told, and getting halfway through a sentence before realising that they can't remember the ending. All problems older people complain about all the time anyway. As far as long-term memory is concerned, we've been working for decades on trying to predict which sections of the memory are 'deleted', and attempting to recover them. Memories seem to be deleted at random, and the amount of "gaps" created can vary hugely depending on the severity of the disease."  
  
"So what's the risk of this more severe memory damage to the students?"  
  
"We've yet to find a way to predict it. Physical symptoms are little indicator of the psychological effects. Evidence clearly points to the fact that severe memory damage is rare. I certainly wouldn't ignore the risk, however. It may well be some factor in the patients themselves which determines how severely they are affected, and we are concerned about the weaker immune systems of children. We cannot predict or prevent it, however one of our major projects at the research centre is developing treatment for such memory damage and experimental results so far have been promising. There is clearly a long way to go."  
  
"That'll be little comfort to parents of affected students."  
  
"Unfortunately not. But I'm not going to pretend everything'll be fine when it might not be. My job is about facts. The best reassurance I can give is that we're doing everything we can to minimise the long-term effects of the disease. Also, Spattergroit is not life-threatening. Unpleasant, yes, but not life-threatening."  
  
"That is an important thing to remember. Thank you, Healer Payne; we'd better let you get back to work."  
  
"No problem. My prayers are with all of the children at Hogwarts and their parents, hoping that everyone will come out of this without long-term effects."  
  
Seamus directs the News back to Teddy, and the rest of the broadcast is all Quidditch talk and an interview with someone from Engall's Ice Cream Parlour about their award.  
  
"Homework, Hugo!" Mum says suddenly as the music signals the end of the program. With an acceptable amount of grumbling, I get up and find my bag - on the hook that Mum always hangs it on, rather than by my shoes where I left it. I have sums to do and spellings to learn, but I get distracted after the sums with an idea for the next chapter of my story for Kelly. I can always do the spellings later...  
  
Spellings don't really matter anyway, I tell myself two days later when Miss Scott announces the spelling test and I realise I never got around to learning them. I know most of them anyway, because they're obvious. The remaining words are the kind that I'd never have any reason to use, and that everyone gets wrong anyway. I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Scott can't do them herself, just pretends she can.  
  
I don't do too badly - better than Mike, anyway. Miss Scott starts acting like she's disappointed by me, but she gets distracted quickly enough by Emma attempting once again to teach Kelly how to make popping noises with her tongue in her cheek. That's the cue for high spirits, as a piece of crumpled up paper hits my hand. I lob it back to where I know Aidan's sitting and crumple up the piece with my spellings on to throw at Terry. It's pretty stupid, with Miss Scott and Mr Benedict both in the room to see, but sometimes because we can't see we forget that they can. Well, that's an excuse.  
  
A short round of flying paper results in us all being kept in at break, something which we complain isn't fair even though it is really. Miss Scott makes us sit in silence with our arms folded, and we surreptitiously kick each other under the table. The challenge is for Miss Scott not to notice, and for the first time ever we actually succeed. (Well, if she did notice, she didn't say anything. We hardly sniggered at all.) She lets us go after five minutes, sending us down to the dining hall to get our fruit and milk. We charge out of the classroom, but slow down once we're in the corridor, pushing and shoving and paying enough attention to know that Rhiannon isn't being left behind.  
  
It's funny, how most of the time we can be perfectly calm and quiet then suddenly on days like this we just can't stop messing around. Miss Scott yells at us three times in Drama, makes us read during craft time (she let us do crafts at first, but quickly realised that was a bad idea), and eventually releases us at home time with a distinct tone of relief.  
  
I don't want to go to Hogwarts, I realise as I yell goodbye to the others. I've thought it before, but never been so certain. The plan has always been Hogwarts, to learn magic, and everyone who's been there claims to have loved it; but I wouldn't fit in like they did. I've got my friends already, somewhere I love. I'd rather be messing around with my friends than learning magic.  
  
I could never say that to Mum, though.


	19. Easter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't often get an unexpected knock on the door at half past nine in the evening. And it's even rarer for the visitors to be invited in at that time. I'm supposed to be in bed, but I creep out onto the landing and lie at the top of the stairs. The muffled sound of voices comes from the living room - Mum, Dad, and a man who's voice I don't recognise. I can't hear the words, but it's obvious from the tone that the strange man is telling Mum and Dad something important.

**Chapter Nineteen - Easter**  
  
   
  
You don't often get an unexpected knock on the door at half past nine in the evening. And it's even rarer for the visitors to be invited in at that time. I'm supposed to be in bed, but I creep out onto the landing and lie at the top of the stairs. The muffled sound of voices comes from the living room - Mum, Dad, and a man who's voice I don't recognise. I can't hear the words, but it's obvious from the tone that the strange man is telling Mum and Dad something important.  
  
The door to the living room opens and I stand up as quietly as I can, ready to back into my room if anyone starts climbing the stairs. The adults move along the hall almost in silence, before saying goodbye at the front door.  
  
"If you have any concerns, any at all, get in touch."  
  
Mum laughs hollowly. "I don't think you or any of your people can answer my concerns."  
  
"No, I suppose not. But any questions, anything we can help with... your daughter's receiving the best care possible."  
  
What? Rose... what's happened to Rose..? The sound of the door clicking shut snaps through my shock and, not caring that I'm supposed to be asleep and certainly not listening from the top of the stairs, I charge down as fast as I can without falling.  
  
"What was he saying? What's happened to Rose?" It's obvious really, and I realise before Mum swallows and answers.  
  
"Rose has spattergroit. He was sent to let us know." Mum sounds calm, calmer than she did when she was saying goodbye to the man at the door. "What are you doing up?"  
  
"People don't normally visit at this time. I wanted to know what was going on."  
  
"How much did you hear?" Mum asks, more sharply than I'd expect.  
  
"Not much. Only the bit as he was on the way out - about your daughter receiving the best care possible. That's Rose."  
  
"Well as he said, she's receiving the best care possible. Now go to bed! We'll tell you immediately if we hear anything else."  
  
"Immediately. Even if it's the middle of the night or I'm at school." Mum hesitates, and I stand with my hands on my hips facing her.  
  
"It depends on the information. I'm not waking you up or going in to school to tell you there's been no change. But if it's serious, I'll tell you immediately, even if it means going in to school and requesting to pull you out of a lesson for ten minutes." I stand there for a moment longer, making it clear she can't hide things from me just because I'm only ten. Rose is my sister; I deserve to know if anything happens to her.  
  
"I guess that's reasonable," I say, feigning reluctance. It's perfectly reasonable, but I'm not going to accept things with no objections or she'll think she can get away with whatever she likes. "Night."  
  
The next morning, Mum has to yell at me four times to get up. Getting dressed, I have to wrestle with my school jumper as the sleeves seem to have mysteriously managed to turn themselves inside out and I have very little patience when it comes to sorting them out. When I do get it on, I discover it's back-to-front and have to sort it out before I finally trudge downstairs.  
  
Mum slides a bowl of cereal in front of me and with something to do, I perk up briefly, but the moment I've finished I'm back to slumping in my chair and grumbling about having to go to school. I like school, but it's one of those days where I don't want to do anything. Of course if I get away with not doing anything, I'll get bored and be miserable about that too.  
  
Usually, Mum tries to cheer me up, but today she just snaps at me to stop being stupid because it apparently won't get me anywhere. I go to practise the piano, but it's not the most productive time because I just hammer through pieces and lose my temper briefly every time I play a wrong note.  
  
"Hugo!" Mum snaps from the door to the living room. "If you're not going to play properly, don't play at all!"  
  
"Fine!" I thump my hands down on the keys one last time then stand up and stalk to the sofa, throwing myself down on it and folding my arms. Mum leaves me there, disappearing back to the kitchen.  
  
At school I'm in a similar mood, hardly talking to everything and snarling back (mostly incorrect) answers to questions. Even Aidan gives up on trying to talk to me, and I think there's a note of relief in Miss Scott's voice when she reminds me to go to my piano lesson.  
  
"Morning, Hugo!"  
  
"Hi," I grunt back. Mr Greg doesn't comment on my mood other than to tell me to start playing straight away rather than talking any more.  
  
"I can't teach you like this," he points out after a couple of minutes, and the calm way in which he says it is worse than if he'd shouted at me. "Either calm down and carry on, or go and sit somewhere quiet for a bit until you feel more like your usual self and are willing to actually play properly." I sit shocked on the piano stool for a minute - Mr Greg's never told me off before, not properly; only for playing the same wrong note too many times in a row and stuff like that. Then my temper comes back and I stand up, stalking out of the room and letting the door swing shut behind me. Mr Greg doesn't get up, just sits there in silence.  
  
I don't go back to the classroom. For a start, I'd have to explain that I got thrown out of my piano lesson. Instead I wander the other way down the empty corridor and find myself at one of the doors which leads outside. It's a dull day, cold but not wet, and I sink down just outside with my back against the wall.  
  
Mr Greg and I have always gotten along well. I've always been a good student, doing plenty of practise and hardly ever making him repeat himself. By losing my temper, I'll have ruined that. Will he let me come back? Or will he refuse to teach me again?  
  
I wasn't exactly nice to Mum, either. While I'd like to use Rose's illness as an excuse, I know inside that it's not that. I'm tired from having stayed up late last night, and that's why instead of just being moody - which is a pretty regular occurrence - I've been being a git all day. Mum'll be worrying about Rose, like I should have been only I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. I've snapped at Aidan and most of the others in my class, and been rude to Miss Scott and Mr Benedict. But what hurts most is that I acted like an idiot in front of Mr Greg, so that he said he couldn't teach me. He said it so calmly, too. He doesn't lose his temper, not like I do.  
  
No-one else loses their temper with me, even when I yell at them. Maybe they all think 'we have to make allowances because he's blind'. Do normal kids lose their tempers like this? Do they snap at people and refuse to co-operate? Actually, they do. More than a lot of the others at school. So it's got nothing to do with being blind, people just assume it has.  
  
I don't want to be different. I have to admit it's been useful in the past, having people make allowances, but I'd rather they just treated me like I was normal. Obviously they never will, but I can wish. It sounds strange, to wish people would tell me off more. In school doesn't really count for things like this, because we're all the same and blind is normal, but outside they all tiptoe round me like I'm made of porcelain or something. Even Mum does it a bit.  
  
Well, I'm not going to let them worry about me or fuss over me. I've thought it so many times: I want to show everyone that I'm as capable and as tough as normal people. I'll show them that just because I'm blind doesn't mean I'm useless.  
  
But it's hard, sometimes. There are so many things I'll never be able to do. There are ways around it, ways for me to do things which sighted people do without thinking, but it's hard. I can't even learn music by myself - I have to have someone teach it to me, learning by ear instead of reading notes like normal people apparently do. Mr Greg has to teach me every piano piece, a bar at a time, or I have to copy a recording. I can only copy, never be the first to play something.  
  
But here I am, sitting feeling sorry for myself. There's nothing I can do about it, so why can't I just accept it? There are other things I should be thinking about, like Rose. And Mum. Rose's spattergroit isn't going to kill her, but I know Mum must be worrying about it – I heard her last night, trying too hard to seem normal. It’s like when Kelly was in hospital; we were all told she’d be back in a few months, but that didn’t stop us from worrying far more than was necessary. It's not fair that I should make Mum have to worry about me when she's got other things on her mind.  
  
I stand up in the end, the same thoughts still going around and around my head. I'm going to show them I'm not useless. But in many ways I am. Other people do so much for me... I don't want them to do a lot for me. I want to be able to do things for myself, not have to get other people to do them for me. But still, I do need them, and I feel like I'm ungrateful every time I wish they'd let me do things myself. They're trying to help me, and I should be grateful but instead I hate them for it. Hate them for being able to do the things that I can't, and for reminding me of the fact. If they deliberately did it to taunt me, I'd feel better because I'd feel like I could hate them for it. But they're doing it to be kind, and I try to make myself appreciate it but I can't.  
  
My hand reaches tentatively for the door to the practise room. I swallow before opening it. Is Mr Greg still here, or has he gone? Gone to tell Miss Scott how I was behaving, maybe. Given up on me. I step in slowly, faltering in the doorway, gathering myself to ask whether there's anyone there.  
  
"Ah, hello, Hugo." Mr Greg greets me calmly, as though everything were normal. "Would you like to carry on with the lesson?"  
  
"I..." I take another couple of steps in, allowing the door to fall shut behind me. "Yes, please. And..." I swallow. "I'm sorry, for being stupid and ungrateful and..."  
  
"Sit down." I do so, settling on the piano stool. "Everyone has bad days. You're not stupid or ungrateful. You just got out of the wrong side of bed this morning..."  
  
"I got out the same side I always did," I point out, before faltering as I wonder how Mr Greg'll respond. He laughs lightly.  
  
"You're clearly back to normal! So shall we have another go at the lesson?"  
  
It's as though nothing happened. The only difference from a normal lesson is that it's cut short, which is only fair seeing as I wasted so much time. At the end, we're both laughing, bad mood forgotten, and I return to the classroom smiling.  
  
The smile fades at the end of the day, when I leave the school and climb into the car. Dad's voice when he greets me is tense, and though he pretends otherwise I know he's worrying. Has there been more news about Rose? No, Mum promised she would tell me immediately if anything important happened. Unless she decided not to, because of the mood I left the house in and thinking I didn't deserve... No, she wouldn't do that.  
  
Of course they're worried. However many times people tell you there's nothing to worry about, you still do. I've got this little nagging feeling in the back of my mind, constantly reminding me that Rose is ill, but somehow it doesn't feel properly real. I can't imagine Rose ill; not properly ill, anyway. Clearly Mum and Dad can.  
  
As the weeks pass, the atmosphere at home slowly lightens. There's been little news of Rose's condition, only that the disease is progressing normally. They tell us when she loses the ability to talk, and mention that she's become confused - as is normal, for cerebrumous spattergroit patients. While it's not nice, it's like any other case of the disease. We had the same kind of messages when Kelly was ill, and Kelly’s just returned to school and is pretty much back to normal already.  
  
My Easter holidays start, but the Hogwarts Express won't arrive this Easter. Easter Sunday dawns like any other day. It's cold, drizzling gently and relentlessly. I eat my boiled egg, then take my small pile of chocolate up to my room where I nibble on it and write until it's time to go to Granny's.  
  
It's quiet. The Aunts and Uncles are all there, but even they're subdued. None of the Hogwarts-age cousins are home, obviously, so there are only five of us. We sit on the stairs, because there seem to be grown-ups everywhere else, listening to Roxie chattering away; her talk's no more interesting than that of any other seven-year-old girl, but no one has the heart to stop her; and besides, it saves anyone else from having to talk.  
  
They’re working on getting the new shop ready, apparently. Never mind that it won’t be opening for another three or so months. It’s all building work at the moment, Roxie says, and Uncle George has taken her and Fred to see it a few times. They apparently got rid of the old buildings that were on the site and started work on a new one, and it’s four times the size of the old one but looks pretty rubbish because it’s all bare bricks and plaster.  
  
Fred interrupts to point out that of course it looks pretty rubbish at the moment because it’s not finished, and when it’s painted and furnished it’ll look amazing. He helped Uncle George with the interior design, he claims, and it should be a similar kind of style but with a few differences. We all complain at him being infuriatingly vague, but he just laughs and refuses to tell us anything else.  
  
Then the doorbell rings loudly and Granny bustles out of the kitchen and past us with a cheery "I'm coming!" The commotion from the door doesn't immediately make sense, but eventually Lily remembers to tell me who it is.  
  
"It's Teddy! He said he might come." Teddy visits Uncle Harry's a lot, the rest of the family far less often. "And he's got Auntie Luna with him - you know Auntie Luna, the funny one we met at the Quidditch World Cup?" Auntie Luna isn't actually our aunt, but our parents like us to call her that.  
  
"Hang on..." I don't know how I hadn't thought of it before, but it suddenly occurs to me. "Auntie Luna... she's the presenter of _Fantastic Beasts Up Close_ , isn't she?"  
  
"Of what?" Lily sounds genuinely confused.  
  
"You haven't watched it? It's a TV program, all about magical creatures! It's really interesting. And it's presented by people called Luna and Rolf."  
  
"Auntie Luna and Uncle Rolf, you mean? I guess that makes sense - they do something to do with magical creatures."  
  
"That's both of them? Wow." I should have recognised their voices on the show, or picked up on the names. I'm surprised at Mum and Dad not mentioning it, but I guess they probably assumed I'd realised who the presenters were.  
  
"Hullo," two voices say simultaneously from the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"This is Lysander."  
  
"And he's Lorcan."   
  
Lucy giggles at their strange way of introducing themselves, before Lily quickly remembers herself and introduces us all. "I'm Lily, this is Hugo, that's Lucy, and those two are Fred and Roxie. Roxanne really, but everyone calls her Roxie."  
  
"Hi," adds Fred. "You wanna come join us?" Two small bodies run up the first few steps then plonk themselves down, one next to me and one on the step below.  
  
"So what are we doing?" I'm not sure which of them asks the question, because I've only heard them introduce themselves and their voices are virtually identical. I know it's the boy sitting next to me, but I don't know whether he's Lorcan or Lysander. This is going to be confusing.  
  
"Just chatting and waiting for lunch," answers Lily. "The grown-ups are talking about boring grown-up things downstairs."  
  
"What do you mean, boring grown-up things?" asks the other boy, the one on the lower step. "Mum and Dad never talk about boring things."  
  
"Not when you're listening, anyway," says Lucy. "Anyway; maybe they don't, but my dad's down there and he definitely does talk about boring things. Uncle George can be funny, Uncle Charlie has good stories; a lot of the grown-ups are interesting, actually. But often when they're together they start talking about work and things, and anyway we'd rather just chat together somewhere away from them. How old are you, anyway?"  
  
"Six," says the one next to me.  
  
" _Nearly_ seven," protests the one on the lower stair.  
  
"We're twins," they say together.  
  
"Nearly seven is still six," says Roxie happily. "I'm _actually_ seven! I'm not the littlest now." The last part is said triumphantly and accompanied by a muffled grunt from Fred, presumably as Roxie prods him.  
  
I can't put up with not knowing which is which. "Which of you is Lorcan, again?" I ask reluctantly. "I can't see to tell you apart." Both of them laugh.  
  
"No one can tell us apart," says the one next to me.  
  
"Except Mummy and Daddy, sometimes."  
  
"When we're not deliberately tricking them."  
  
"We're i-den-ti-cal." The one on the lower step says the long word carefully, before remembering the question. "I'm Lysander, and he's Lorcan."  
  
"Dad tried to give us different haircuts once," confides the one I now know to be Lorcan. "The moment he left the room our hair grew to be the same as each other's again."  
  
"Mummy laughed and said that Daddy should be able to tell us apart anyway," says Lysander, "but then she mixed up our names herself. Well, she _might_ have done it on purpose, but we think she actually got it wrong."  
  
"She gets it right _most_  of the time," admits Lorcan.  
  
"But not all the time. And it's funny trying to confuse her. But Lorcan always ruins it when we've nearly got her tricked."  
  
"Do not! You do!"  
  
"You do!"  
  
"Don't!"  
  
"Do!"  
  
"Don't!"  
  
There's a commotion next to me as Lorcan launches himself at Lysander and they tumble down the stairs. The rest of us freeze in horror, before Lily jumps up behind me.  
  
"Are you..?"  
  
"Mmph!" comes a muffled protest from the bottom of the stairs. "Gerroff!"  
  
"Who ruins it?" We relax slightly, as the twins are clearly not badly hurt. Accidental magic protected them, I guess. Not that it was far to fall anyway, but they _are_ only six.  
  
"You do! Gerroff!"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"You!"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Lunch is nearly ready," says a dreamy voice which I recognise immediately from _Fantastic Beasts Up Close._ There's no mention of the fact that Lorcan and Lysander are now apparently wrestling at the bottom of the stairs; Auntie Luna seems entirely unfazed by the fact. She's probably used to it.  
  
"Okay, Mummy!" calls Lorcan, and the scuffling stops. The boys run back up to sit one next to me and one on the step below, argument forgotten.  
  
"Did you say you can't see?" asks the boy sitting next to me - presumably Lorcan again. I can't help but become a little defensive.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why not?" he asks.  
  
"I'm blind."  
  
"Why?"  
  
I scowl. "Because life isn't fair." Mum told me the technical reason; but 'life isn't fair' covers it well enough, especially for six-year-olds. I'm hardly going to start talking to them about torture and dark magic and the war, especially not on the first time meeting them and when we're at Granny and Granddad's for Easter. Today is supposed to be about celebrating. Anyway, I don't really want to talk about it.  
  
A soft form presses against me, small arms flung round my waist. "Are you angry, Hoo-go?" Lorcan asks timidly. "I don't want you to be angry. I want you to be happy." I smile despite myself and wrap an arm around his shoulders, giving him a hug. Lysander leans against my legs.  
  
"I'm not really angry," I reassure them. "It's just that I don't like talking about it."  
  
"Does it hurt?" Lysander sounds worried. I force a laugh.  
  
"No. Everything's normal except I can't see."  
  
"Like having your eyes shut?"  
  
"Yes, something like that." I guess, from what I've heard from other people. Obviously me shutting my eyes doesn't really make a difference, but I vaguely remember Mum using the 'eyes shut' illustration when telling people like the cousins about it when we first met.  
  
There's silence for a minute while they digest it, before the questions resume. "Don't you walk into things all the time?"  
  
"Not much. That's why I walk around with my hands in front of me: so I feel things before I crash into them. When I'm in strange places, people help me."  
  
"Can we help you?" I smile, then hesitate a little. Putting my trust in two six-year-olds who I've only just met... I know they mean well, but what if they got distracted and ran off, or decided it would be funny to walk me into something, or pulled me too fast down the stairs? Never mind, I decide. Granny and Granddad's is hardly a strange place, so I wouldn't be relying on them completely.  
  
"Of course." I nudge them away and stand up, before holding my hand out to the one on the higher step. "Let's go and find the lunch. Lorcan? And Lysander can go on the other side." I realise as they say it that by having one on each side I won't be able to hold the banister. Oh well; we're not far up the stairs. The twins fall about laughing.  
  
"You think..." gasps out Lorcan. "You think... I'm Lorcan? That always works!"  
  
"What?" I ask, a little more sharply than intended.  
  
"We swapped places when we came back. I'm Lysander, and he's Lorcan!"  
  
"Well how was I supposed to know?"  
  
"You weren't! The whole point was to trick you." There's nothing mean about how they say it. They're genuinely proud to have tricked me. Yes, it might have been easier than on most people, but they only did it for fun.  
  
"Really?" Lucy asks. "I didn't notice. Did you, Fred?"  
  
"I had this little feeling," says Lily slowly, "but I didn't consider you might have done that. That's clever!"  
  
"I knew!" pipes up Roxie, and though we all know she didn't really we can't be bothered to argue with her.  
  
"Okay then. Well, Lysander here;" I hold out my left hand to the one I now know to be Lysander; "and Lorcan here." Two tiny hands press themselves into my palms and the twins lead me slowly and carefully down the stairs and over to find the dinner table.  
  
"Hello, Hugo," says a familiar voice as I sit down.  
  
"Auntie Luna?" The twins settle themselves on my other side, and I hear them strike up a conversation with Roxie.  
  
"That's right."  
  
"You might get bored of saying but... I really like your TV program." I feel my cheeks flush slightly. I sound like an awkward fan. Surely they don't want to be seen as celebrities here, when it's supposed to be a nice Easter lunch for family and friends.  
  
"You do? It was Rolf's idea, and a lot of people seem to like it. It's good fun, even if some of the cameramen can be a bit boring."  
  
"You describe things really nicely. Like, so I can imagine them - despite, you know, not being able to see the pictures on the screen."  
  
"It's funny how little people would notice if I didn't describe all the details; being able to see isn't the same as looking." It's almost as though she's talking to herself, rather than to me.  
  
"Mum says nearly the same thing."  
  
I wonder for a moment whether it's a hint of scorn that I detect in her voice when she answers. "Does she?" Then she continues as though I hadn't spoken. "Some people have to be taught to look; that's what I'm trying to do.  
  
I'm not entirely sure I understand, but I nod anyway. A plate of food - roast lamb, potatoes, green beans and carrots - is placed in front of me.  
  
"Mint sauce?" asks Auntie Luna, startling me because I somehow didn't expect to hear her say anything as normal as that.  
  
"Um, yes please!"  
  
We talk very little during the meal, being more occupied with Granny's excellent cooking. James and Louis are especially conspicuous by their absence - James can keep up a constant stream of one-sided conversation and still eat three helpings of everything, and Louis is the entertainer of the group. They usually create conversation in a way which brings everyone together, and without them the room feels empty. Auntie Luna and Uncle Rolf entertain Lily, Fred, Lucy, and I with stories about their lives studying magical creatures - if they sound passionate when they're presenting the show, the same is true in real life. Everyone else talks in small groups too or eats in silence, none of the usual laughter and high spirits.  
  
The plates are cleared away, and some people drift from the room while the rest of us just remain at the table. Teddy's the first to leave, as he's apparently got the evening news to read despite it being Easter Sunday. It's funny, when Granny turns on the TV, to hear the news read by someone who barely an hour before has been conversing and eating in the same house as us.  
  
Then more people begin to leave, and I stand next to Mum and Dad as they drag out their goodbyes. The Potters have already gone, as have Uncle George and Uncle Percy. I've pretty much tuned out, but suddenly something Uncle Bill is saying catches my attention  
  
"...Rose recovers quickly."  
  
"I hope Victoire does too," Mum replies quietly. Victoire? I know what they're talking about - the spattergroit. How did I not know that one of my cousins - my oldest cousin - also had it? How come Mum never told me? Have any of the other cousins got it? Not Al or James, I shouldn't think, because Lily at least would have mentioned something and we meet the Potters often enough. But the others...  
  
I ask Mum as soon as we get home.  
  
"I only found out today," she defends herself. "Victoire only caught it a few days ago. It's a bad case, though, they say. Very quick developing, and a lot more blisters than most. They reckon she'll end up with noticeable scarring. None of the other cousins have it, yet."  
  
"Have you had any more news about Rose?"  
  
"Nothing more than what I've told you already: she's a perfectly normal case, developing as might be expected. I promised I'd tell you immediately if I heard anything else, and I will."


	20. Lo, How a Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Easter holidays, we go to Godric's Hollow again. Snuffles tugs on the lead and flails his tail against our legs, Mum worries about muggles seeing us, Uncle Harry trails behind with Dad valiantly trying to interest him in a conversation. It's warm but not sunny; the ground's muddy, but it hasn't actually rained since Easter Monday. The church bell signals ten o'clock as the gate creaks open and Aunt Ginny encourages us all into the garden of the house.

**Chapter Twenty - Lo, How a Rose**  
  
   
  
At the end of the Easter holidays, we go to Godric's Hollow again. Snuffles tugs on the lead and flails his tail against our legs, Mum worries about muggles seeing us, Uncle Harry trails behind with Dad valiantly trying to interest him in a conversation. It's warm but not sunny; the ground's muddy, but it hasn't actually rained since Easter Monday. The church bell signals ten o'clock as the gate creaks open and Aunt Ginny encourages us all into the garden of the house.  
  
While Lily and I are still told to stay back from the house, the whole place kind of feels... safer. The garden's more open, the trees and brambles which rustled close by and protruded everywhere now confined to the edges of the garden. At one point, Lily warns me a little too late and I almost trip on a tree stump, but Mum's near enough to catch my arm as I'm struggling to retain balance.  
  
Lily murmurs descriptions to me as usual. Apparently, the house now has a roof and isn't leaning dangerously any more. "It looks like a proper old house now - a pretty one that one could live in, like the others in the village."  
  
"...done an impressive job," I hear Mum finish, as she and Aunt Ginny apparently admire the building.  
  
"They have, haven't they?" agrees Aunt Ginny. "And there's nothing to stop us from going inside now!"  
  
"I'm still going to say wands out," says Mum, and Aunt Ginny agrees.  
  
"At the very least, we'll need them to clean up a house that hasn't been visited - except by curse-breakers and builders - for thirty-seven years."  
  
"True. _Alohomora._ " Mum murmurs the spell softly, then there's a loud click and the door creaks open on stubborn hinges. Conversation and murmured spells fade out of hearing, and I stand outside in the garden with Lily, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I don't know why they felt we should all come, as Mum and Aunt Ginny don't seem to need the rest of us.  
  
We do get something to do when Aunt Ginny comes to the door and calls across to Uncle Harry, and the two men set to work on the garden. Severing charms cut the vegetation into manageable sized pieces, which Lily and I drag into piles - well, Lily drags them into piles while I sit on the damp ground holding Snuffles' lead and picking at the few blades of grass which have managed to survive on the churned-up earth. Everyone's busy except me.  
  
The church clock strikes twelve, and that signals a break. We eat our picnic on the same bench as we did the first time we came here, and wander to the graveyard afterwards in the same way. Slabs of granite and marble side by side in their long rows, rough beside smooth, cold as death. Uncle Harry stands before his parents' graves, and I'm close enough to hear him murmuring under his breath.  
  
"...I suppose I ought to try to move on. Ginny's right: I shouldn't let the past ruin the future. Voldemort ruined enough... I shouldn't let him rule me now... I'm a parent, but I'm not as good as you were. You gave everything for me... and I'm making a fuss about a house which would be perfect for them. And like Ginny said, I don't refuse to go to Hogwarts and more people died there. But that house is where it all started. I can't help remembering, every time I go there... and I don't want to remember any more. I want to forget it, to not see faces when I close my eyes, to not hear... I'm never going to forget, am I? I have to accept it... it's just hard... I accepted death, and now I'm struggling with memories."  
  
He laughs hollowly, catching Aunt Ginny's attention, but even as she begins to form a sentence he's leading the way out of the graveyard and back to the house. Did anyone else hear what he said? Probably not. I'm a child, and I'm blind. People often forget that I can hear just as well as anyone else.  
  
When we return to the house, he goes with Mum and Aunt Ginny to the front door. Dad stays with Lily and I as their voices fade into the echoing chasm of the house. There's not much of the garden left to clear, especially as apparently we're leaving a high hedge around the perimeter to reduce the risk of muggles seeing things they shouldn't.  
  
Uncle Harry comes out after a few hours to join Dad. "We'd better deal with the wards," he says. "They were destroyed when..." he tails off, then moves on quickly. "They'd need refreshing after all this time, anyway, and personalising to us. Lily, Hugo, if you stay where you are..."  
  
The pair move further away and begin to murmur protective charms, long and near-unpronounceable strings of words. I've got a good memory, but I doubt I'd ever be able to memorise all of this. When they've finished and come back to where Lily and I are standing, I ask them how they can remember all of that.  
  
"Practise," answers Uncle Harry wryly. "I never thought I'd be able to do it, but part of Auror training... we already knew a lot of them before, and used them a lot when we were on the run, and then we learnt some more specialist ones in Auror training. Securing a building is a pretty basic operation."  
  
I pick up on one particular bit of the explanation. "On the run?"  
  
"During the war." Uncle Harry doesn't volunteer any more information than that, and Dad doesn't say anything at all. It begins to drizzle, the wet kind of rain that seems light but soaks through everything.  
  
"Come inside," Mum calls from the door of the house. "All of you." Lily jumps at the invitation, towing me across the garden, pausing very briefly before stepping across the threshold. I follow, Snuffles at my heels.  
  
It smells old, musty and damp. Dad and Uncle Harry follow us in and push the door shut, and the air is still. Mum's already disappeared through to another room with a command of "don't touch anything, and don't go anywhere we haven't already cleaned."  
  
"It's pretty bare," Lily tells me. "The windows are dirty, so there's not much light... oh, Dad and Uncle Ron just used magic to clean them. We're in the hall, and on the right there's a shoe rack with shoes in it. And there's a board, with pictures of someone who looks like a young version of Dad..."  
  
"Oi, cheeky!" puts in Uncle Harry. "I'm the young one in those photos."  
  
"The..? Oh!" Lily continues in an awed voice. "There's a baby in the photos, Hugo! Dad, as a baby. I never even thought about what Dad might have looked like as a baby."  
  
"And what did he look like?" I ask impatiently. Dad's laughing hysterically, and Uncle Harry's telling him to shut up or next time we're at Granny and Granddad's he'll ask for all the embarrassing baby stories.  
  
"Just... Like a normal baby. Small and podgy and not much hair. And squirming a lot."  
  
"I'm sure your mother and I have pictures of you at that age," teases Uncle Harry. "I believe we're saving them to put up at your seventeenth birthday party."  
  
Lily stamps her foot playfully. "Right, I'm not having a seventeenth birthday party. Or if I do, you and Mum aren't coming."  
  
"Aww, you wouldn't..."  
  
"You think?" Uncle Harry mutters something about 'take after your mother' and Dad sniggers.   
  
"Do you have any of Rose and Hugo's baby photos?" Uncle Harry asks Dad.  
  
"Of course we do! You never know when you might need blackmail material..."  
  
"And party decorations."  
  
"And that."  
  
I smile sweetly. "I think I'll just have some of my friends from school round for my seventeenth. I know it's a long way off, but I really hope I haven't lost touch with _all_ of them by that time. Decorate if you really want to; we won't be too bothered."   
  
Dad lets out a strangled snort. "Spoilsport. Guess we'll have to have all the fun on Rose's birthday, then."  
  
Not long after, the room with the fireplace is clear so we can floo to Grimmauld Place. We sit in the living room for a bit, while the adults drink tea and talk. Lily and I play with Snuffles and get bored, listening vaguely to the adults' conversation. They drift through various boring topics before making returning to the subject of the house.  
  
"You'll be decorating soon, won't you?" asks Mum. "At the Godric's Hollow house, I mean."  
  
"Hopefully," replies Aunt Ginny. "We'll have to do a bit of thinking about how to arrange the rooms, and the particulars on interior design, but James and Al should be back just at the right time to help with colour choices and painting."  
  
"Al should be good at that," says Mum. "Provided you can get him interested, that is."  
  
"Big if," Aunt Ginny points out. "He likes to do his own thing. You know that broom design, for the competition? He didn't even tell us he was entering. He's sure to have his own ideas on how we should decorate, but whether he'll tell us..."  
  
"If he doesn't, we can't help that."  
  
Aunt Ginny sighs. "No, but I feel like we should be able to. And you know... he might not tell us what he wants, but he'll be annoyed if we do the 'wrong' thing."  
  
Mum's pretty unsympathetic. "He'll have to learn to speak up, if he wants things done his way."  
  
"Oh I know, but I want him to be happy."  
  
"It'll be better for him in the long term, to learn it now."  
  
"It's easy enough to say. In practise..."  
  
"It's what's best for him."  
  
"I _know_. But that doesn't mean I like it." Dad interrupts the conversation, changing the subject, and Mum's left out of the conversation yet again as the topic moves to Quidditch. Always Quidditch. I have no idea how they manage to find so much to say about a sport.  
  
School starts a couple of days later - none too soon for me. The summer term is uneventful, just normal days with normal lessons and normal games with friends. Half term passes, and the dreary wet spring is banished by a heat wave. School days stretch out, hour after hour trapped in a classroom with the windows wide open and the sun pounding down all around.  
  
The summer holidays draw closer, something Lily's excited about but I'm not. I guess we'll be going to Ireland for the Quidditch World Cup, but Quidditch is rather a visual sport - not to mention that World Cup means crowds. And of course whenever I think about the World Cup, I wonder whether Rose'll be going. There haven't been any more cases of the spattergroit for weeks, so it seems like James and Al will escape, but Rose is still in a bed in the hospital wing. We can't even visit. Dad's got us all tickets for the opening ceremony and England's first match, but we don't yet know whether all of those tickets will be used. And anyway, holidays mean not seeing my class (beyond the occasional meet up with Aidan).  
  
I try to make the most of the remainder of the term, to enjoy it before the holidays arrive. It's hard, though, being trapped in the classroom doing maths as the world slowly bakes and I just want to dive into a swimming pool or something. Worst of all are the days when my fingers itch for the harp strings, but then when I eventually get home and can play my hands are sweaty and sticky and I can't coordinate them properly.  
  
Mrs Roy's understanding when I struggle like this in lessons, but that doesn't stop me from getting frustrated. I know that I can do better, but my fingers won't let me; and when the strings slip out of tune because of the heat, wrong notes don't even sound beautiful any more. _Correct_ notes don't sound right any more.  
  
"That's how it is with harps," Mrs Roy tries to reassure me. "They're ghastly to tune, and they go haywire at any change in temperature. It's something we just have to put up with." Well, we don't really. I know Mum would be able to cast a spell to keep it in tune. I don't ask her, though - first of all, Mrs Roy would be suspicious when it was perfectly in tune in lessons, despite the heat. And it'd be cheating.  
  
"You have a sister, right?" I freeze for half a second before nodding.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Didn't you say her name was Rose?" I don't remember mentioning Rose to Mrs Roy, but she has a habit of picking up this kind of information. Not like Mr Greg, who seems to tune out everything not related to music.  
  
"It is. Why?"  
  
"I've got a popular piece for you to learn next. It's called _Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming_. It's really a Christmas hymn, but it's also played at weddings and the like and it's just a lovely piece. And I thought you might like to learn it, as it's got your sister's name in it."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." How can I refuse without it seeming really weird? I'm sure it's a really nice piece, and I like learning everything that Mrs Roy teaches me, but I can't help thinking... my Rose isn't 'blooming'. Wilting, more like.  
  
It is a haunting little piece, a very simple tune to learn first before we add chords - some clean, some spread - to add depth. Maybe when Rose gets home I'll play it to her - provided she's not being annoying. There's a kind of unspoken rule against expressing liking for one's siblings in front of them, but if I just say it's a welcome home present or something. Rose was pretty dismissive of my harp when she was home for Christmas, but if I was playing especially for her she might actually listen.  
  
I hum the tune in the car on the way home, pretending to pluck the notes in the air. It's something I often do, a good way to practise when I don't have harp or piano to hand, just making sure the fingering patterns are firmly committed to memory. Mum doesn't understand it - what's the point in playing when you can't hear what you're doing? But it helps me get the patterns in my head when I might otherwise forget them before getting near an instrument again. Plus Mr Greg suggested something similar in an early lesson, to improve coordination or something. I can't doing anything else in this time, so there's nothing to lose.  
  
In the afternoon, Mum has to go to work. I sit in my room, typing out the final chapter of my story for Kelly. Ten chapters, it'll be, and that's long. Maybe not for an actual published book, but for me... Mermaids, this one is. Not muggle-style mermaids, sitting on rocks and combing their hair. Dark merpeople, alien creatures with a strong sense of pride and a tendency for violence. There was an episode of _Fantastic Beasts Up Close_ all about real merpeople a few days ago, and I've taken the basis from that and developed it to create my own version of the creatures.  
  
"Hugo!" Dad calls, hurrying up the stairs. I exhale sharply, frustrated that the interruption has to come just as the words have started to flow, and finish my sentence before I forget where I am in it. The door to my room is pushed open slightly.  
  
"I'm writing!" I tell Dad, hoping he'll take the hint and leave. He doesn't.  
  
"I'm really sorry, Hugo, but I've just been called in to work. A couple of the guys are out on a case and it's taking them longer than expected, and I have to cover for them on a security job, so you're going to have to go and join Mum. You can take your writing with you..."  
  
"I can't concentrate when there are people around."  
  
"Maybe Mum'll be able to find you a quiet room. I just thought you might like to, as you'll have to go out now anyway."  
  
"Why can't I just stay here? It's broad daylight, you'll all be back before too long, and I promise I won't leave the house or use the cooker or anything."  
  
"I'm sorry, but you can't stay home on your own." Dad's tone is final. "Find whatever you want to take. I'll wait by the fireplace downstairs."  
  
I grunt, then set my fingers back on the keys. The rest of the paragraph comes slowly, and when I've finished it I scoop up my Brailler and some spare paper and head downstairs as quickly as I can. Shoving both into my school bag, I decide I can always do homework if I can't focus on the story. Why does the interruption have to come _now_ , though? Right now, when I've just managed to get the chapter actually working.  
  
I must look funny, walking through the Ministry holding onto Dad's arm, wearing muggle clothes and with my muggle backpack on one shoulder. We reach the room where Mum's in a meeting and Dad murmurs something to the woman guarding the door. After a short inaudible conversation, the woman opens the door and Dad slips me into a seat at the back. The door closes almost silently as he leaves, and I lean back in the chair with my arms folded. At the front of the room, a man's talking, but I don't bother listening.  
  
After a couple of minutes of sitting at the back with my arms folded, I do start listening because there's nothing else to do. It's the usual boring rambling about house-elves and public opinion and all of the things they talked about last time I had to come to a meeting. Or is it?  
  
"...a regulation on the sale of house-elves, the ability to purchase subject to the approval of the Welfare board and all new placements being subject to random checks for the first six months of possession to ensure that welfare guidelines are upheld."  
  
The official language takes a moment to process, particularly as I've missed the start of the debate, but Welfare board... they're talking about actual measures like Mum's been campaigning to get for years! Not exactly freeing all house-elves, but going some way to making sure they end up in good homes.  
  
The ideas remind me of the guide dog application system. New owners have to be approved to make sure they'll be able to provide a good home and they're capable of looking after the dog properly."  
  
I miss the start of Mum's reply, but catch the end. "...a facility to report mistreatment," she insists. "House-elves are unlikely to report their owners themselves, but the facility should be available; and also the facility for others to report if they believe a house-elf is being mistreated. The education system for young house-elves should involve highlighting their rights, making it clear to them from an early age that they do not merely exist for the purpose of serving humans."  
  
"House-elves don't listen to that kind of thing," someone else argues. "You know what they're like about serving - it's all about the master."  
  
"That's why I'm proposing that they be raised to think otherwise, from an early age. If they grow up hearing that they exist to serve humans, they will never consider otherwise. But when they are young enough to accept new ideas, then I think they should be given a broader perspective to allow them to make informed decisions later on in life and pay some attention to their own welfare. They need to be taught to think for themselves, that they're actually worth something."  
  
Someone else starts speaking, arguing against the idea, and a heated debate starts up which I follow for a while before getting bored and tuning out. Disappearing into my own little world, as Mum describes it. A quiet, private place totally under my control, where I can make up stories and tunes and think whatever I like.  
  
I'm drawn out of it by a change in the noises of the room. Chairs scraping back, papers being shuffled, heavy footsteps all around. Mum comes straight up to me. I explain to her what Dad told me, about him being called in to work, then she takes me to a cafe to find food. There's a spring in her step and a smile in her voice.  
  
"It's taken long enough, but I think we're getting there! Still a long way to go, of course, but they're listening and that's the most important thing. In the next few years, hopefully we'll get regulations on house-elf sales. At the moment, the only regulations are those on magical creatures in general! They're lumped in with pixies, kneazles, crups, that kind of creature, regardless of the fact that they even speak our language. Of course where they do have specific 'breed' regulations, that tends to leave them even less rights than normal animals!"  
  
She's getting worked up, so I try to calm her down. "You're doing something about it, aren't you? Yeah, it's stupid that they're treated like that, but at least you're going to get them decent conditions and stuff in the end."  
  
"Yes. Yes, I am. It's taken a long time - I started campaigning back... oh, it must have been fourth year! Well, maybe we're finally getting there."


	21. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The term's almost over when we finally get the message to say we can visit Rose. There's no longer any danger of passing on the infection, but she's still far from recovered. The hospital wing is full; while quiet, I can hear sounds of people shifting in bed and the odd cough. It's got that hospital scent in the air, the one that I know all too well, of... well,cleanliness. Mostly it's the sterile clean smell, and then there are hints of potions and the bitter note of lavender.

**Chapter Twenty-One - Lavender**  
  
   
  
The term's almost over when we finally get the message to say we can visit Rose. There's no longer any danger of passing on the infection, but she's still far from recovered. The hospital wing is full; while quiet, I can hear sounds of people shifting in bed and the odd cough. It's got that hospital scent in the air, the one that I know all too well, of... well, _cleanliness_. Mostly it's the sterile clean smell, and then there are hints of potions and the bitter note of lavender.  
  
At intervals along the room are small groups of people murmuring softly. Around Rose's bed is silence, at least until we break it.  
  
"Rose?" Mum tries not to sound tentative. There's no response, except perhaps the slightest rustle of the sheets. "Rose? It's Mum. I'm here. So are Dad and Hugo." Another miniature shift, but otherwise nothing.  
  
"She's barely beginning to recover," says a woman softly. "The disease has left her very confused, something which will hopefully fade over the coming weeks. And she hasn't been able to speak for a while - that's one of the normal effects of spattergroit - so it's unsurprising if it takes her a while to get her voice back."  
  
"You'd think she'd recognise us, though. Or at least respond to my voice."  
  
"It's cerebrumous spattergroit - it affects the brain. She may be struggling to process signals, or having difficulty controlling her body."  
  
"Is this normal?" Mum's voice is hushed but still sharp, urgent. The woman's hesitation tells us more than any words ever could.  
  
"Most patients are more responsive at this stage. Rose has been a relatively mild case as far as the physical symptoms are concerned, but on the mental side she's been worse affected and is taking longer to recover. Some things cannot be rushed..."  
  
"I'm her mother," interrupts Mum. "If there's anything... it's my right to know... the truth. The whole truth. Don't tell me it'll be fine if it won't. Yes, it might be fine. But what if it isn't? We deserve to know all the possibilities. Don't try to be positive now; it'll only make the blow harder if..."  
  
"We're worried," admits the healer. "She's not totally unresponsive - for a start, she's regained the ability to swallow independently, although she can't chew yet."  
  
She can't chew. She can swallow, but she can't even chew. And for a while, she couldn't even swallow. I don't know how the healer can make that a positive. Except... that it could be worse. The most frightening thing of all: realising that it could be worse.  
  
"All of the patients have been in a similar situation, at the height of the disease, partly because of the fungus affecting their throat and partly because of the way the disease affects the brain and reduces the patient's control over their body. There are a number of monitoring spells we're using, to alert us to drops in temperature or heart rate, and in case she stops breathing..."  
  
"Stops breathing?" Mum almost forgets to keep her voice soft.  
  
"It's a common issue, actually. Breathing is an instinctive action, but still controlled by the brain. For a while we had a spell controlling Rose's lungs, because that section of the brain was unable to. We removed that spell two weeks ago as she began to recover properly and she hasn't had any breathing issues since."  
  
"A spell was breathing for her, and nobody told me." Mum's voice is both dangerous and helpless. "All I got was 'the disease is progressing normally', over and over again. Was that true, or was it just that you didn't want frantic parents seeking reassurance? Or that you couldn't be bothered to write more personal messages? At what stage did you intend to break the news that actually, the disease isn't progressing normally? As you said, Rose is taking longer than usual to recover, but there was no hint of that in the message I received just a few days ago."  
  
The healer's nervous now. "As I said, breathing problems are a common issue. We have a lot of patients here, and almost all of them have lost the use of their lungs for periods of time in the height of the disease. The spell tides them over until their brains can regain control over the action."  
  
"Hermione," says Dad softly, "getting angry won't help." Mum doesn't respond, but when she speaks again her voice is gentler.  
  
"So you're worried..."  
  
"Yes. She's not totally unresponsive, but she doesn't react to voices. She blinks at bright light, which is another positive sign, and she acknowledges touch. But there's no apparent visual recognition of objects, certainly not faces, and we've asked her simple questions - to respond by blinking, if she can't manage anything else - with no success."  
  
"And it's just a matter of time?" Earlier, Mum was complaining about being told that it was 'just a matter of time'. Now, her voice is almost pleading.  
  
"Hopefully."  
  
The final word rings around and around my head as we stand in silence beside Rose's bed. She shifts occasionally, making the bed creak, but never is there any indicator that she's aware of our presence. In the end, we leave. I looked forward to visiting Rose, to finding out that she was okay. I leave knowing the opposite.  
  
Three more weeks of school. The rest of the class know immediately that there's something wrong, but after the fourth time of being told 'nothing' they stop asking. The teachers see it too, gently cajoling me into joining in with activities and lessons. Only looking back later do I realise how they kept me from going off alone, how they did their best to keep me occupied. No one had even told them about Rose; they just knew I was worrying about something.  
  
They do a pretty good job of keeping me busy, but in every silence I seem to hear the sounds of the hospital wing. Soft footsteps, funeral whispers, and the faintest rustle of the sheets.  
  
And then we go outside, to the sensory garden, and it's a million times worse. While the sun beats down, a world away from the artificially cool hospital wing, I'm surrounded by the bitter smell of lavender. It's a smell I like, usually - strong and bitter, instantly recognisable. Now, even with the backdrop of warm nature rather than cold cleanliness, with thick pollen in the air rather than the faint stench of potions... now, lavender is the smell of the hospital wing.  
  
I stand up after a few minutes and walk inside. No one calls after me, though I hear Miss Scott hushing the class. If anyone follows, their footsteps are quiet.  
  
I find myself walking to the practise room, and it's empty so I slip inside and sit in the corner with my back against the wall. And this is the moment when it strikes me that the teachers have been keeping me busy, not leaving me alone with my thoughts, and I realise why. My thoughts are those I usually think before I go to bed at night. I used to make up stories in that time, but now when I try I can't focus and I end up just hearing that one word over and over again.  
  
 _Hopefully._  
  
I haven't spoken to Rose since she went back to school after Christmas. I said goodbye to her, went to school, and when I came home in the afternoon the Hogwarts Express was well on its way. I can't even remember the words we used. Probably not much more than just 'bye'. We all thought she'd be back at Easter. We never thought she'd end up in a hospital bed, unable to speak or even to chew. That for a while she'd forget how to breathe.  
  
The house is almost silent, too. We have the wireless on all the time in the kitchen, and the TV on all the time in the living room, anything other than silence. When we speak, it's about normal things, like food and work and what I've done at school. Those conversations never last long.  
  
"Never mind the washing up," says Mum, and we leave it until we have to wash the bowls in order to use them. Dad seems the most normal, going out to work and coming home like he always does, watching any Quidditch matches on TV. He doesn't yell at the TV, though, only mutters half-heartedly sometimes.  
  
At least when I'm practising, things seem more normal. Music is a place where everything makes sense, where emotion is actually beneficial, where the instrument can cry though you can't justify the tears. I don't know how long I spend just making up tunes, but when I get up I feel like 'hopefully' means something else. It means that there is hope, that there's no reason to give up and every reason to keep going.  
  
We visit Rose again, and there's nothing but lavender and funeral whispers. Rose's sheets rustle a little more, and the healer says she's improving. It doesn't feel like it.  
  
Every time we visit, the improvement slowly becomes more obvious. Mum and Dad are too distracted to describe things for me, but the healer says things like "chewing for herself" and "reacts to specific voices".  
  
"Why not my voice, then?" asks Mum. "I mean, she must have known mine for the longest..."  
  
"She's reacting to the voices she's heard a lot since beginning to recover from the disease." The healer takes us into another room, a little office with soft seating and old books as well as potions and lavender. "What do you know about cerebrumous spattergroit?"  
  
"Not much," answers Mum. "What they mentioned on TV, and that the man who told us about Rose... what he told us."  
  
"Well, I think they mentioned on the broadcast, that while most patients only lose memories and retain the confusion for the duration of the infection and perhaps a little before..."  
  
"In some cases, the disease can be severe, targeting both short- and long-term memory," Mum finishes quietly. "So how much has she forgotten?"  
  
"We're... not sure. Much of it is probably locked away, a little below her consciousness, and she'll remember more as she recovers. Basic memories, like parents' faces and voices, are so deeply ingrained that it's unlikely she's forgotten completely. Skills like walking - she may retain some of the instinct, or she may have to learn them all over again from scratch. We're already working on muscle exercises with her, because she's been in bed for a long time and that will definitely have weakened her body. Whether she has to relearn everything or the memories return, eventually she'll be able do everything she could before the illness. It'll take patience, but she'll get there."  
  
"Patience," Mum says hollowly. "Oh, I can do patience. Anyone who's taught children to talk, brought them up, potty-trained them..." I try not to react. "...has to have a hell of a lot of patience. I suppose she'll have forgotten how to talk, too..."  
  
"We don't know, yet. She may well have forgotten a great deal of English, but we hope that she'll retain the basics, and the knack of forming the sounds."  
  
"Anything would be a blessing, I suppose." The healer doesn't argue.  
  
School is the one thing that's still normal, which can distract me for a while. Otherwise, I wander aimlessly around the house a lot. When I write, my stories come out dark and I tuck them into the bottom of my desk drawer so no one will find them. Especially at weekends, I spend hour after hour practising, because at least that way I'm doing _something_.  
  
Rose can come home, we're told suddenly. It seems impossible - she doesn't seem like she's recovered. But she's recovering, they say, and she might be better off in a familiar place. A healer will visit every day to check on her and help with her muscle exercises.  
  
We have a couple more visits to the hospital wing, and one time when we arrive there's a soft murmuring from the bed. Nothing but gibberish, but it's the first time she's made a sound. "Hello, Rose. It's Mum." Mum speaks slowly, like she's taking to a very small child. "Mum." The murmuring stops suddenly, and the bed creaks. "It's okay, Rose. Mummy's here." The sort of words which might be used to comfort a crying child, but Mum's the one crying. There's a catch in her voice and a telltale thickness.  
  
I stand next to her and wrap an arm around her, not knowing how I can help but wanting to do anything, _anything_ , to stop her from crying. This is Mum. She's supposed to be the strong one. She's not supposed to cry. She hugs me back and keeps crying.  
  
Rose shifts restlessly on the bed, beginning to murmur again. Baby talk, that's what the gibberish is. They say it's Rose in that bed, but the only thing I have to tell me that is what other people have said. The person in the bed is nothing like Rose. Rose is my bossy, irritating sister, always trying too hard to help, always meaning well even if most of the time it doesn't show. She's not the person lying in bed muttering baby talk.  
  
Except apparently she is.  
  
A couple of people from St Mungo's visit us at home to help us get ready for Rose's arrival. While I sit downstairs, trying to concentrate on the harp and not the sounds coming from upstairs, they crash around in her room. I don't see why they'd need to make many changes - after all, magic and potions don't require much specialist equipment, not like muggle medical care.  
  
You'd think they'd be better off leaving her room as it was, as she remembers it, rather than messing around and making it so it's... not her room any more. I'd hate it if someone messed around with my room like that, and not just because it would have to re-learn the layout. I'm surprised at Mum not arguing, but she accepts everything they say to her with barely a word.  
  
Only when they move out of Rose's room and loiter in the hall do I stop playing and go to join them. "Please don't move too much," I say. "If it's not necessary... it makes a difference to me."  
  
"Oh. Yes." Mum tries to act like they'd considered that. "Well, we have to make sure..."  
  
"It's not like we're muggles. We don't need wheelchairs and stair lifts and stuff. And don't you think Rose would rather things were the same as when she left? She'll be confused enough, without changing things that maybe she does remember."  
  
One of the St Mungo's people speaks up. "We're only trying to make it easier..."  
  
"It's not going to be easy however much stuff gets shifted around. Stop making changes for the sake of it." I left them to it at first because I thought they knew what they were doing, but it's clear now that they're just trying to look like they're doing something. And it feels like they're just going through the motions without thinking.  
  
I leave them stammering over excuses and disappear upstairs. The door to my room is closed, as I left it, and nobody's been stupid enough to try to change anything in there. My Brailler's set on the table, and I feed in a fresh sheet of paper then try to think of a first line. But it's not simply that I don't have any ideas - it's that my mind's completely empty. I tell myself I'm going to think of something, but then I can't make myself actually try.  
  
Cars glide slowly up and down the road outside, and a little way up the street some children are playing in a garden. They squeal excitedly, a splash of life in an otherwise dreary suburb. Most of the birds have found shade from the summer sun, and are saving their strength for the cooler evening. A crow suddenly launches a string of abuse at the world, a guttural caw shattering the air then fading from earshot around the side of the house.  
  
The sounds all merge together into a picture. An ordinary summer afternoon. My room's a little warm for comfort, the open window generating no breeze at all. A fly buzzes against the glass, seemingly unable to find its way out despite the fact that only a few inches to its left is a gaping space. The noise is vaguely irritating, but not enough for me to do anything about it.  
  
The St Mungo's people leave at last - I hear them saying goodbye, then a sudden hush downstairs as Mum and Dad are left with no reason to talk.  
  
I tentatively type out the title of my new story: _Lavender_. It's more description than anything else, kind of poetic, a piece as bitter as the scent of that herb. Bitterness, and hope. There are fairies in the flowers, imps which bicker and fight for no reason at all except that that's what they're too proud to let anyone else have their way. Yes, it's fairies, but they're not like the fairies in muggle tales.  
  
And when I've finished, I sit back and let my mind wander again and just think of nothing as the world slips by outside. I don't know how long I sit there, only that I'm stirred by a nagging ache from my empty stomach.  
  
"Hello, Hugo," Mum says distractedly when I get downstairs.  
  
"Hi Mum. What's for tea?"  
  
"What's..? Oh." She sounds flustered and guilty. "I'll put something quick on now...  omelette sound good?" I signal agreement, and she opens the fridge. "Oh. We're out of eggs.” There's silence for a minute, a helpless silence, and I help her out.  
  
"Is there anything else we could eat instead? Otherwise the supermarket should still be open..." I've never needed to prompt Mum before. She's always prepared, always knows exactly what to do. But she isn't now.  
  
"Yes. Yes, that makes sense." She doesn't move immediately, still staring into the fridge.  
  
"Anything in there?" I prompt again.  
  
"Not... No, not really."  
  
I cross the kitchen carefully and feel for the bread bin, opening it and reaching inside. I find the loaf, just a few slices left. "We'll need bread too," I tell her. "Let's decide what we need, and I'll go to the shop with Dad." Dad's a little more 'with it' that Mum at the moment.  
  
"Yes. Um, eggs obviously. Bread."  
  
"Milk?"  
  
She checks the fridge again. "Yes, milk, and a couple of packets of butter." With a deep breath she seems to jerk back almost to normal. "Get some bacon too, and a box of mushrooms. We've got cheese."  
  
"And is there anything we should get for tomorrow?"  
  
"Good thought. Um, some kind of fish?"  
  
"Fish," I say decisively. "So. Eggs, bread, milk, butter, bacon, mushrooms, fish... and we'll get some chips, too."  
  
"Thanks, Hugo." She raises her voice. "Ron!"  
  
We drive to the supermarket, as we're in a bit of a hurry, and I tell Dad each item in turn. He might be a bit quiet, but he's wide awake and we fill the basket quickly enough. It takes him a little longer to count out the coins than it would a muggle man, but it's not slow enough to be suspicious and he pays without a problem.  
  
He makes the omelette when we get home, too. Yes, he checks the instructions with Mum a few times, but he does it fine and before too long we're sitting down to eat. I've put all the shopping away, finding spaces for everything in the appropriate area (there is actually a full bottle of milk in the fridge already, but we'll get down it fast enough and I don't bother pointing it out to Mum).  
  
Dad washes up, too, and I help him put things away. This is more normal, a chore we do often enough. Mum hangs around helplessly for a bit before Dad tells her to have the evening off and read a book or something. When we finish tidying up the kitchen, we join her in the living room and hear gentle, even breathing coming from the sofa. Without a word, we slip back to the kitchen, leaving her to sleep.  
  
Before long, I go to bed too. Dad's disappeared back into the living room, to sit silently on one of the chairs. Outside is still alive with the sounds of a summer evening, the birds having at last decided it's cool enough to come out. The house is silent, and I climb into the bed and pull the covers round me.  
  
Rose is coming home. She ought to be home already, like Al and James and the rest, but she's not. We won't be standing at King's Cross, waiting for the Hogwarts Express to pull in with her on board. We won't be waiting for her to say goodbye to her classmates. Mum won't be fussing over whether she's got everything, and Dad won't be teasing her over whether or not she's got in trouble at all. But despite all that, at least she's coming home.


	22. The Start of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I pad softly downstairs, settling myself on the harp stool. I don't feel like playing any tunes, but I run my hands gently up the strings. The sound's discordant, infinitely complex, and yet pure and simple at the same time. Like life. Discordant, complex, but all based around the simplest concepts and all somehow fitting together.

**Chapter Twenty-Two - The Start of Summer**  
  
   
  
They take Rose straight up to her room. I hear them carry her past my door, heavy footsteps on the landing, not a sound from her. No doubt she's asleep, to make the journey less stressful - though surely it'd be more frightening to wake up in a completely different place than the one in which you went to sleep than to be aware that you were travelling.  
  
Soft voices come from that room, funeral whispers, and eventually the people who brought her leave. I think about leaving my room now, about going over to Rose's room, but somehow I can't bring myself to do so. The whole family's home together, just as we were a year ago. It's easier to think of it like that when I can't hear my big sister muttering baby talk to herself.  
  
Nevertheless, I'm drawn to that room in the end. Rose is asleep when I get there, quiet breaths whistling through her lips. The room is filled with the scent of flowers, not lavender this time but roses. Their presence alone is a cliché, but one that makes sense. The garden's full of roses, strongly scented blooms which fill the air with their perfume, filling the borders all around the lawn. Rose is lost in an unfamiliar world, but maybe she'll at least recognise the scent.  
  
"Mum..." I freeze, mind spinning. Did Rose really just say..? Or is it just a meaningless sound, like all the others. "Mum...ee..." Mummy. I slip quietly from the room and head as quickly as I dare across the landing to Mum and Dad's room.  
  
"Mum!" I call softly  
  
"Hugo?"  
  
"Rose... she just said 'mummy'." Mum's straight up on her feet, brushing past me and disappearing into Rose's room. Mum doesn't usually stay in her room during the day, but it's near to Rose. Not that her being close by really makes a difference - if Rose needed constant supervision, she wouldn't have been allowed home - but I understand why.  
  
I follow Mum, loitering in the doorway to Rose's room. "Mum...ee..." comes that tiny voice again, and Mum's straight to her side.  
  
"Rosie. Oh, Rosie. Mummy's here. It's OK, Mummy's here..." I wonder how many times Mum's comforted Rose like that in the past. Whether Rose was crying because she'd fallen over and grazed her knee, or was terrified by a thunderstorm, or had woken up from nightmares inspired by one of Dad's scary stories, or had done badly at school and felt like she'd let everyone down. It doesn't matter that Rose is older now, or that this is something which can't be healed with a kiss and a cuddle and a spell to repair the grazed knee. Rose wants Mummy, and Mummy's here.  
  
The steady breathing falters for a second, and the bed creaks as Rose moves. A small grunt, a sign that she's waking up. "Mummy." Her voice is weak and faltering, but the word's obvious.  
  
"Mummy's here, Rosie. Mummy's here."  
  
"Mummy. Daddy."  
  
"Daddy's at work, sweetie. He'll be back soon." Rose has only come back, and already Dad's back at work. For a moment, I'm angry - with Dad, for leaving, and with Uncle Harry for letting him go in. With the ministry for making him go to work today. The anger fades quickly enough - he had no reason to know Rose would ask for him. I don't blame him for getting out of the house, for finding something to do rather than hanging around with nothing but his thoughts.  
  
"Daddy," Rose says, with something like confusion, then more happily, "Mummy." I wait in the doorway, wondering whether she can see me. Waiting... hoping... but no, there's no murmur of 'Hugo'. It's only early - of course she'd manage Mummy and Daddy first. Things like this take time.  
  
I pad softly downstairs, settling myself on the harp stool. I don't feel like playing any tunes, but I run my hands gently up the strings. The sound's discordant, infinitely complex, and yet pure and simple at the same time. Like life. Discordant, complex, but all based around the simplest concepts and all somehow fitting together.  
  
In a world so big, how can a soft murmur feel so important? All Rose said was "Mummy" and "Daddy". But however small it may seem when put in perspective, it is important. It means that Rose is still there somewhere, and that the healers were right: there is hope. She is recovering.  
  
Dinner's late again, but nobody cares. As soon as Dad gets home, I tell him what happens and he takes the stairs two at a time. Eventually Mum comes down and disappears into the kitchen, and I wander upstairs. The bathroom door clicks shut at the end of the landing just as I reach the top step, and though I'm not sure why I feel kind of guilty as I continue past my door and slip into Rose's room.  
  
"Hello, Rose," I whisper, quietly enough not to disturb her if she's asleep. When there's no answer, I back towards the door a little before a weak murmur finally reaches me.  
  
"I..."  
  
Perhaps I ought to give her time, but words fall out of my mouth too fast. "What is it, Rose? It's Hugo." Interrupted, her voice fades to a confused silence. I reach out a hand, very slowly, and manage to find hers. I have it in my head what will happen: I place my hand on hers, and she curls her fingers around it. It's a beautiful image, too beautiful to actually happen.  
  
She draws her hand away quickly, as though frightened. I let mine fall back to the side, feeling hollow. She's never been frightened of me. I'm Hugo, her little brother. We played together as soon as I was able to. She always looked out for me, always wanted to help me.  
  
Now she has no idea who I am.  
  
The last day of term arrives. There aren't any lessons; not real ones, anyway. We have extra crafts, and play games, and say goodbye to Miss Scott. There's roman food to eat - dates stuffed with almonds, and special bread, and that kind of thing (although Mr Benedict teases us about stuffed dormice). And we dress up in tunics and togas and take every opportunity to use all of the tiny amount of Latin we've learnt.  
  
It's the end of the day, and Miss Scott walks with us from the building. "It's been lovely teaching you," she tells us, and says goodbye to each of us in turn. "I look forward to seeing where you end up," she says to me. "I've got a feeling you're going to do something special."  
  
"I hope so," I say, and she laughs.  
  
"You keep that spirit going. Never give up, and in the end you'll get to where you want to be."  
  
"Hopefully," I say with a smile, and then the word hits me.  
  
 _Hopefully._  
  
It's the last day of term. Concentrate on that, Hugo. Say your goodbyes with a smile on your face. Make sure that's the memory Miss Scott has of you. The moment the car leaves the drive, you can stop struggling.  
  
Mr Benedict's goodbye is different, as he'll still be our teaching assistant next year. He says he hopes we'll enjoy our holidays and come back ready to concentrate in September. We're going to be in year six, the top of the school, and we'll have to set good examples to the younger ones. Like we ever cared how year sixes behaved when we were in the lower years.  
  
We say goodbye to each other, and suddenly I find Kelly speaking to me.  
  
"Bye, Hugo."  
  
"Bye, Kelly."  
  
"Thanks for the stories. I've got them all on my shelf, in a folder, so I can read them when I feel like it. You're a really good writer."  
  
"Um, thanks." I hug her gently. I remember the day we came in after the Christmas holidays and were told she was in hospital with skin cancer. She's back now, as healthy as ever - if a little more grown-up - but I can't help but remember the thought we all shared when we were given the news. There wasn't a great risk of it at the time, but none of us could help entertaining the possibility that... she might have died. Any of us could die at any moment, actually, no kind of goodbyes. Accident, illness, crazy psycho... So we shouldn't ever leave angry with each other, because that would be a rubbish kind of memory. Life's too short to fight with each other all the time.  
  
And then the parents are here, and Aidan and I say goodbye and agree to meet in the holidays, then I'm in the car driving away from the school as Dad asks how my day was. I absent-mindedly pull my toga further up my shoulder. It's the summer holidays. No school until September. Just a big empty gap.  
  
Each morning, Mum changes Rose's clothes and then Dad carries her downstairs. He sets her on the sofa, settling her carefully, and works through her muscle exercises. She's just about sitting up, propped up a bit with cushions, and most importantly she's downstairs rather than in bed. It's strange how that immediately makes it feel like she's better than before. Of course the illness isn't really in her body but in her mind. The weakness is from months in bed and from the energy it took to fight the disease. Before she came home, the healers started working on getting her sitting up again, a little at a time.  
  
Mum comes in and goes straight over to her. "Time for your potion, Rosie."  
  
"Don... don't like it..." The words are slurred but still distinguishable. She's said odd words, like "Mummy" and "Daddy" and "thirsty", but this is practically a sentence. Maybe the healers are right: the memories are still there, she's just struggling to control her body enough to speak. Maybe coming home's helped - being out of the hospital wing and in her own room, with her own family.  
  
"Sorry, Rosie, but you have to drink it. It'll make you better."  
  
"Don't... like it... Mum..." She splutters over the potion at first, then gives up and just drinks it. "Don't... like it..."  
  
"I know you don't. When you get better, you won't have to drink it any more."  
  
"Get... better..."  
  
"Yes. You have to get better quickly. You hear me, Rosie? You have to get better. And Mummy's going to make sure you do." The tone is so familiar. Mum's trying to reassure Rose, but perhaps even more so she's trying to reassure herself.  
  
"Mummy."  
  
"Mummy's here, Rosie. Mummy's here." Before she's finished speaking again, Rose is murmuring her distressed baby-talk. The sense that she was recovering, that she'd be back to normal before long, is crushed by this reminder that while she _is_ recovering, she's a world away from the Rose I know.  
  
A specialist turns up in the afternoon and I sit silently on the other sofa in the living room while he checks on Rose and talks to Mum and Dad. I'm not sure they've realised I'm in here, but it's not like I'm hiding or anything. And Rose is my sister; I have as much right as anyone else to know what's going on.  
  
"...supposed to go to the Quidditch World Cup but..."  
  
"Ron! Never mind the stupid cup."  
  
"Hermione! Let me finish, please! I was trying to say, obviously there are more important things now. But I'm supposed to be helping with security, which will mean being out of the country for a couple of weeks. I'll probably change the plan now, coming home between shifts rather than staying there as planned."  
  
"Did you have tickets for the whole family, or was it just you?" asks the visitor.  
  
"All of us, but I can find someone to give them to..."  
  
"Actually, I was going to say it might be a good idea to go. It'll depend how the next couple of weeks go, but if Rose keeps progressing like this the fresh air and change of scenery could do her a lot of good. If it were further away, the travel would be an issue, but it's only in Ireland. In fact Rose could pay a visit to the research centre while she's over there; they've been developing therapy for people in her situation, and there's a possibility they'll have discovered something which works. I know many of the techniques they're trying are free from risk, so there's nothing to lose from trying..."  
  
"But camping, and the crowds..."  
  
"The crowds could be an issue. But forgive me; as you are Ron and Hermione Weasley, surely you have access to VIP areas? Provided you're careful - and I'm sure you will be - you can minimise Rose's exposure to the crowds. She might enjoy the matches and the atmosphere, although you'd have to watch her carefully and leave if she showed any signs of being overwhelmed. And..." he hesitated for a moment. "I think the rest of you could do with a break."  
  
"Rose has only been home for one day!" Mum protests.  
  
"You've been under a lot of stress these past weeks. I'm not saying that taking Rose to the Quidditch World Cup wouldn't be stressful too, but... you'd be surrounded by people, rather than shutting yourselves away with your fears. No," he continued quickly, cutting across Mum's attempts to protest, "I'm not accusing you of hiding. Your reactions to the situation have been totally logical and reasonable. It's not easy, and I don't think anyone can cope with this kind of thing on their own. That's why I'm here, offering you advice. In order to look after this young lady here, you have to look after yourselves."  
  
"You think... it would really be good for Rose?" Mum's hesitant.  
  
"Yes, I do. You can see how quickly she's progressing - yes, it feels slow, but cast your mind back to the first time you saw her. A couple more weeks and I wouldn't be surprised if she begins to grow frustrated with being stuck here. Being trapped in the house, under constant supervision, reliant on other people for pretty much everything, listening to other people talking about you when you're right there... it's pretty frustrating, isn't it, Rose?"  
  
"Frus... Don'... like." Rose forces the words out.  
  
"I bet you don't. Well, we're trying to get you back to normal as quickly as possible. So, how would you like to go on holiday?"  
  
"Ho...li...day..."  
  
"Going to stay somewhere else, not in this house. Your Mummy and Daddy are thinking about taking you to watch some Quidditch."  
  
"Like... ho-li-day."  
  
"You would? Well, you have to work very hard on getting better. Do your exercises properly, and drink up all your potions without complaining."  
  
"Yucky."  
  
"I bet they are, but you have to drink them so you can get better and go on holiday."  
  
Rose reluctantly mutters agreement.  
  
So we're going to the World Cup. There isn't the same excitement as there was last time we went. That trip was a holiday, a chance for Mum and Dad to meet up with old friends and to soak up the atmosphere of a World Cup final. This time, Dad'll be working some of the time. We've already experienced the atmosphere, so it won't be new in the same way. But most importantly, we've got other things on our minds.  
  
As she promised, Rose gets better. Certainly not quickly, but looking back to where she was a week ago it's clear she's improved. She sits up for herself without leaning on cushions, can even crawl a little on the floor. Mum finds a sports bottle so she can drink without assistance, although Mum or Dad always pass it to her and stays nearby just in case she chokes.  
  
She's recovering, but she still gets tired quickly. I always claimed it wasn't fair that I had to go to bed before my sister, but it feels wrong now that I stay up later. In between her brief spurts of activity, she lies on the sofa with the TV on, and I'm never sure whether she's watching or daydreaming because there's only so long you can spend watching TV before it gets boring.  
  
I join her on the sofa for _Fantastic Beasts Up Close_. We end up leaning against each other, and she flinches occasionally as Luna and Rolf talk about kappas and apparently have a few close shaves.  
  
"Mummy!" she calls out suddenly when the program finishes. I don't think Mum's in the room, having gone to do some job or other elsewhere in the house.  
  
"D'you want something?" I ask Rose. She sits up so she's not leaning on me any more, then calls again. "Mummy!"  
  
"Do you want me to get Mum?"  
  
"You... get... Mummy."  
  
"Alright." It's probably something I could help her with, but she's never asked me for help. She's never even said my name, or spoken to me of her own accord. I go to the door and call, in a voice that's rather stronger than Rose's, "Mum!" She runs downstairs as I go back into the living room.  
  
"What is it, Hugo?" she asks.  
  
"Rose wants you." In an instant, Mum's over beside the sofa.  
  
"What is it, Rose?" she asks softly.  
  
"Thirsty," Rose complains. I feel a stab of annoyance. I could fill the water bottle and bring it to her. There was no need to bother Mum.  
  
"Alright. Let's get you a drink. I'll only be a minute..."  
  
"I'll get it," I say. "Where's the bottle?"  
  
"Thanks, Hugo. It's on the counter in the kitchen."  
  
I wait a second to see whether she'll add more of her own accord, but when she doesn't I have to ask. "Which counter?"  
  
"Oh..." she says, embarrassed. "Sorry. Oh, never mind; I'll get it."  
  
"No, I will," I insist. I only want to know what counter it's on, to save me having to check right round the kitchen! It's not a difficult task or anything.  
  
"Next to the draining board," she tells me.  
  
"Shall I fill it up from the tap?" I prompt.  
  
"Oh... no, you don't have to."  
  
"Okay." I vanish along the hall, find the bottle, and take it to Mum. She mutters a spell and there's the thunder of liquid filling it up.  
  
"Have you got the lid?" she asks me.  
  
"Uh, no." It was on there when I gave her the bottle, and she must have taken it off to fill it up. I don't bother trying to look, because that would just be stupid. It's probably on her lap or on the floor next to her or somewhere really obvious.  
  
"Oh, sorry... Um... where did I put it, then?" Mum asks helplessly.  
  
"How am I supposed to know?" I ask, perhaps a little short. Mum never asks me stupid questions. She's always sensible and in control - or at least she was until a few weeks ago.  
  
"No, you couldn't... sorry..."  
  
For crying out loud, stop apologising!" I snap.  
  
"Sorry..." Mum realises what she's done. "Sorr..."  
  
"Stop it!" There's silence, until Mum apparently finds the bottle lid and screws it on.  
  
"Here you go, Rose," she asks in a strangely high voice. Rose takes the bottle and guzzles noisily, and I leave the room.  
  
When Rose is upstairs, I return to the living room to do my practise. There's no reason why I can't practise when she's in the room, but for some reason I just don't want to. I don't like other people being in the room when I practise anyway, though I put up with it so long as they don't comment. But Rose being there... I feel awkward enough around Rose anyway. And what if she didn't want to listen? She can't just get up and wander off.  
  
I pluck the harp, almost experimentally. Unbidden, a song jumps into my head, the one Mrs Roy taught me a few weeks ago. _Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming_... She said I should play it for Rose. Rose isn't downstairs at the moment, but I may as well practise it. Rose might hear it, at least faintly. If she doesn't, what does it matter? She never cared for my music anyway.  
  
My fingers curl on the strings, feeling the tension in each wire before I release it and it sounds. Bare feet rest lightly on the pedals, pressing them down when necessary and otherwise simply feeling the vibrations that shiver through the wood. The sound's pretty clear; Rose should be able to hear it from where she is upstairs.  
  
If she does hear it, there's no sign. Obviously she can't come down without help and she can't call down or anything. Why would she, anyway? It's only a piece of music - she doesn't know it's for her. To her, it's probably little more than noises. Unless she's asleep already, in which case she probably can't hear it at all.  
  
As I play the last note, I lean my cheek against the carved wooden body and feel the last vibration fade along with the final note. The house is silent. Mum and Dad are upstairs, although it's far too early to go to bed, and Rose is probably asleep. I'm tired, all of a sudden, and empty. What's the point? I spend so much time playing, but in the end it's just... noises. Some people like them, but most don't really care. Mum could cast a spell which would play far better than I do. All the hours I spend practising... I could just as well do something worthwhile instead, but I'm blind and there's nothing much worthwhile I'm capable of doing.  
  
If I wasn't blind, I'd be able to help properly. I could lay the table and get lunch ready and do all of the things that Rose used to do before she went to Hogwarts. But instead I just make life harder. My parents would have enough to do just looking after Rose, and they've got a blind ten-year-old to care for too. There's a lot I can do for myself, but I'm still more effort than a normal boy.  
  
Two disabled kids. One blind, the other... At least before, Mum and Dad had one healthy child. Someone to hang all their hopes and ambitions on. There are a lot of things I can't do, but Rose was going to do them for both of us. Now...  
  
I'm more capable than she is, now. The healers say she'll recover with time, at least a little. Maybe she'll be normal again, eventually - hopefully. But if she never gets there...  
  
Rose was supposed to be the one to do Mum and Dad proud. I guess it'll have to be me. All those things she can't do any more... I'll have to do them for both of us. However hard it might be.


	23. Packing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You always know what we’re thinking, don’t you?”
> 
> “No! Don’t be silly; I’m not a mind-reader. I’m just good at guessing.”
> 
> “Most ten-year-old boys…”
> 
> “I’m not most ten-year-old boys, am I?” I interrupt. “Whatever I might be, I’m not a normal ten-year-old boy.”
> 
> “True,” he agrees, “and I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing.”

**Chapter Twenty-Three – Packing**  
  
   
  
I’m not sure why Uncle George asked me to help with the shop move too. I sit in the corner of the new store, listening to other people working. Not only are all the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes staff on hand, but Uncle George has called in half the family too. Not Victoire, as she’s still recovering her strength from her own spattergroit infection, and obviously not Rose, but pretty much all the other cousins are somewhere here.  
  
When Dad dropped me off this morning, the new shop was bare and echoey. There was a carpet, yes, and the furniture was up, but the shelves were empty. The quiet of early morning, when most people weren’t awake enough to make conversation and most of the other stores in Diagon Alley had yet to stir for the day.  
  
Then Uncle George called everyone together and the work started, and as the shelves began to fill the empty shop came to life. There are things buzzing and rattling and whistling, and people call to each other as they work.  
  
“Hello, Hugo.” Uncle George sits down beside me. “You look bored.” I don’t deem that worthy of a response, so after a brief pause he carries on. “I know this probably isn’t much fun for you, but I thought you might like to get involved.”  
  
“Get involved?” I ask bitterly.  
  
“All right, I haven’t really involved you at all,” he admits apologetically.  
  
“Don’t make up jobs just for the sake of including me,” I tell him. “People do that all the time, and it’s stupid.”  
  
“I won’t do that. I’m just thinking about whether there’s something you _can_ do… you know the muggle tricks?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“If I bring you over some of the wooden and metal puzzles, can you try to put them together for me? I’ve recently developed a spell to make them resistant to magic, which makes assembling the display pieces rather harder. But I know you’re good at those puzzles.”  
  
“Couldn’t other people do them faster?” I ask.  
  
“Other people have quite enough to be getting on with. Even if it does take you longer than it would take them, they have other things which need doing and by you doing this for me you’ll be freeing up another person to help with everything else. Plus you’re unlikely to come crying to me after five minutes, saying it’s impossible!”  
  
I shrug. “I can do that.”  
  
“Thanks, Hugo.”  
  
In the middle of the morning, there’s a break, and a couple of the shop assistants bring round drinks and cakes. I sit in my corner, fiddling with a load of little carved pieces of wood, and ignore the people trying to speak to me because I know if I get distracted now I’ll have to start again with the puzzle.  
  
If anyone does consider talking to me, they change their minds before actually coming over. I complete five puzzles uninterrupted, and I’m reaching for the sixth when Uncle George interrupts me.  
  
“You might want to leave it until after lunch,” he says, sitting down next to me. “Thanks for doing those, Hugo.” I grunt acknowledgement, turning the next puzzle over in my hands and feeling the shape. Despite Uncle George’s suggestion, I can’t help but start trying to solve it.  
  
“What’s everyone else doing?” I ask Uncle George when he doesn’t make any sign of leaving.  
  
“Oh. Um, well some of them are putting products on the shelves. Fred and some of the other youngsters are out the back, sticking labels on boxes. Someone’s setting up the till, and others are doing the displays. Then some of the older kids are helping carry stuff over from the old store. There are people everywhere, all busy, and that’s a good thing if we’re to be ready for opening day on Saturday.”  
  
I do a mental calculation. “Two days. That’s not very long.”  
  
“No, but we can do it in that time. Today is all hands on deck to get the stock moved in. Tomorrow is hopefully just a chance for the staff to get used to the new layout, making sure everything’s ready for opening day, and sorting out any last-minute crises. If necessary, we can also finish any stock movements that doesn’t get done today, but particularly with magic I think we’ll have this place sorted by the time we lock up for the night. And if we leave it too long, we’ll be missing all the kids buying their new school stuff, because starting this stage of the move meant we had to… close the old shop.”  
  
The last four words are said more soberly than the rest of the sentence, and Uncle George falls silent once he’s said the last one. His voice is strangely high when he continues.  
  
“It should be exciting. Like opening the Hogsmeade shop, only bigger. And these are lovely premises – the old ones were nice, but the shop’s grown out of them… it’ll be strange, not having that old shop any more. You know that’s where we started, all those years ago..?”  
  
“Mmm-hmm.” I suddenly remember something Uncle George said on release day, all those months ago. “Uncle Fred opened that shop with you, didn’t he?”  
  
“Yeah.” A soft sigh. “We were so proud of it, everything we’d imagined and worked for. We set it up together, did all the interior design, loaded the shelves and built out own displays, and then we took one door each and pushed them wide open and called for everyone to come in and look around. And at the end of the day we stood together and surveyed our half-empty shop and set to work refilling the shelves for the next day.”  
  
“He’d love this new shop,” I tell Uncle George confidently. “He’d be so proud. Don’t you think he would be? The business you two started together has grown so much, and it’s still growing. Don’t you think he loved the business, not the building?”  
  
“Oh yes, it was all about the products – and the customers.”  
  
“Well then this is exactly what he’d have wanted to see,” I tell him confidently.  
  
“I guess… I can’t help but worry. Closing the shop he helped open. When we opened, he said to me that in fifty years’ time we’d start to think about handing over the keys to someone else. It’s not been fifty years, but I’m handing over the keys already.”  
  
“The keys to the business, not the store,” I point out.  
  
“I guess,” says Uncle George. He laughs dryly. “You always know what we’re thinking, don’t you?”  
  
“No! Don’t be silly; I’m not a mind-reader. I’m just good at guessing.”  
  
“Most ten-year-old boys…”  
  
“I’m not most ten-year-old boys, am I?” I interrupt. “Whatever I might be, I’m not a normal ten-year-old boy.”  
  
“True,” he agrees, “and I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing.” I shrug and carry on fiddling with the puzzle.  
  
Lunch is eaten sitting around a large table; I’m not sure exactly why there’s a large table here at all, but maybe it’s for meetings or something. I finally get to speak to Lily, sitting next to her and picking at a ham sandwich someone gave me. Louis is keeping the whole table entertained, but I’m not really listening because I don’t feel like it.   
  
"So," says Lily suddenly, "Quidditch World Cup." There’s a burst of laughter from the other end of the table, seemingly in response to something Uncle George said.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Mum's already threatened to make James stay with Granny and Granddad instead of going if he doesn't behave himself."  
  
"Empty threat," I say. James isn't going to spend the next two days on his best behaviour, and Aunt Ginny's not going to leave him with Granny and Granddad.  
  
"Yeah. Well, he managed to get through about an hour before forgetting and reverting to normal, so it did some good."  
  
"Has he done any pranks or anything?" I ask. "Funny stuff, not just annoying."  
  
"Well, Mum has confiscated his wand over the holidays because in the first week back she caught him covering the kitchen floor with ice so that poor Snuffles slid all over the place when he tried to walk. They don't monitor it in wizarding households, but underage magic is still against the law and what with Dad being head of the Auror office and all..."  
  
"That's not funny, just mean," I point out. "Poor Snuffles."  
  
"I think that's why Mum was so angry. Normally if he starts messing around with magic, he just gets yelled at, but because he was tormenting Snuffles she decided to go tough and confiscate his wand. Oh, and he nicked a snitch from school. I mean, he doesn't even play Quidditch. But yeah, he started trying to show off with it to Al and I but he couldn't catch it again and it flew out of the window. Tried to say it was Al's fault for having the window open in his room. I pointed out that it was Al's room and James hadn't been invited in anyway, and besides how were we to know that he wouldn't be able to control the snitch."  
  
"So where is it now?" I ask.  
  
"Oh, somewhere out there," Lily answers vaguely. "Mum and Dad don't know, and James isn't quite dumb enough to demand to go and look for it." We sit in companionable silence, as I play with Snuffles' ears and Lily tips her chair back so it creaks. "How's Rose?" she asks suddenly, the words falling out of her mouth. "I mean... I get that you don't want to talk about it, but the rest of us don't know anything except what Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron say, and that's not much."  
  
"Aunt Ginny came to visit, didn't she?"  
  
"Yes, but she didn't tell us anything. Nothing beyond 'getting better slowly', and that doesn't mean anything if we don't know what stage she was at when she started getting better."  
  
"Well..." I take a deep breath, and suddenly the words pour out. "She can't walk. She can crawl around a bit, and sit up on her own, and they're slowly working on getting her standing. Apparently it's the result of being in bed for so long, and fighting off the disease, rather than the disease itself. She can't remember much - she talks like a two-year-old, lisping out single word demands. I'm not sure how much she can remember, but I'm pretty sure she can't remember who I am." I stop. "You'll find out for yourself in a couple of days, anyway. She's coming to Ireland with us. The Irish St Mungo's lot are meeting us as soon as we get there and they've got what sounds like a modified muggle wheelchair to help her get around."  
  
"Wheelchair?"  
  
I sigh and shake my head. "You go to muggle Primary School, Lily! It's a chair, with wheels on. You must have seen one, or at least heard of them."  
  
"Maybe... I don't remember."  
  
"A couple of the others at school use them. They can't walk, so they sit in chairs with wheels and most of the time other people push them around - although when Rhiannon's using hers she can manage it by herself. Rhiannon can walk a bit, but not very well, and she uses her chair for some sports and for when she's having especial problems with her legs."  
  
"It seems like a sensible kind of idea. Put wheels on chairs, so they can roll around. A bit like the special chairs in computer rooms, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, but with bigger wheels and they only go forwards and backwads." Messing around on computer chairs is always fun and does our concentration in computer lessons no good at all. If everyone in our class used a wheelchair... we'd never get anything done, no matter how much Miss Scott - or rather whoever the year six teacher is - snaps at us or shouts or threatens to keep us in at break. It would be hilarious.  
  
But while the wheelchair might be fun, it wouldn't make it worth being like Rhiannon - or Rose. Not being able to run around, struggling to join in with games, having to rely on other people and on special equipment - I get enough of that being blind, enough limits on what I can do.   
  
"So what have you done so far this holiday?" I ask Lily, changing the subject abruptly.  
  
"Not much; I already told you about it. Mum's been fussing over packing, and before that she was trying to get us to go out and do things 'as a family' every single day. Long country walks and stuff like that. I mean I don't mind walking, but it's kind of boring just wandering along paths for hours at a time. Oh, we went to the beach one time, for a picnic and stuff, and the sea was really cold but fun. And we made a giant sandcastle, but then the sea came and washed it all away..."  
  
Now we've found something to talk about, Lily chatters away happily until Uncle George pushes his chair back and tells us all that it’s time to get back to work. Everyone vanishes off to do their various jobs, and I retrieve my puzzles.  
  
“Uncle George?” I say suddenly.  
  
“Yes, Hugo?” I’m not even sure how I knew he was there. Somehow, I just did.  
  
“Stop worrying.”  
  
“I’m not…”  
  
“Yes, you are. Everyone worries, mostly about things they can’t change. Yeah, you might not like it, but if you can’t change it… you might as well just do the best with what you’ve got. Worrying won’t make Rose not, you know… but we can only do our best to look after her and help her recover. And all the things she can’t do any more, I’m going to do for her.”  
  
Uncle George is silent for a minute. “And you’re telling me that worrying won’t bring Fred back, and I should do the things he can’t any more.”  
  
“It’s up to you. Do whatever you want to do, because I reckon you being happy would make him happy.”  
  
He laughs sadly. “If only it were that easy. These things we can’t change… that doesn’t stop us from wishing we could.”  
  
“No, I guess not,” I admit. “But we shouldn’t let that stop us from doing the things we want to do.”  
  
“No,” he agrees. “Don’t let anything stop you from doing what you want to do.” He walks away without another word, leaving the words to sink in.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I whisper softly after him, then shake myself slightly and return to the puzzle.  
  
We get another break in the middle of the afternoon, with drinks and more cake. The shop is buzzing now, like the old one, with the rattling and whistling and popping from all the products and the laughter of the people working. It’s like a proper joke shop, now, not the empty warehouse it was when we started. Now all it needs is customers.  
  
It was an afternoon of high spirits, but back home nothing is normal. Mum took Rose to St Mungo's for an appointment while I was out, and while there hasn't been any bad news or anything I know from experience how depressing St Mungo's appointments are. I go up to my room in an attempt to escape the miserable atmosphere that pervades everywhere else, but obviously it's not that easy.  
  
I give up after a while. The piece of paper I loaded into my Brailler is still blank, and I leave it sitting on the desk and go downstairs. Dad's in the living room, watching a Quidditch match on TV, and I suppose listening to it will probably be more interesting than doing nothing.  
  
" Rose?" I query softly, to make sure the sofa's free before I sit down.   
  
"She's in bed," Dad tells me. "The hospital appointment was pretty tiring for her."  
  
"Mmm-hmm." I sink into the cushions, shifting to curl into a ball. I don't even know which teams are playing, and I don't really care; the match is just something to listen to. Just noise. Not even particularly interesting noise...  
  
There's a blanket tucked around me. I untangle my arms and stretch, and my neck protests violently at the motion. Clenching my teeth, I massage the muscles to unstiffen them. The room's silent, the Quidditch match over. I must have fallen asleep, though I don't remember it... well obviously I wouldn't remember it.  
  
My stomach growls a little, but I ignore it. I'll find food shortly; I don't feel like it right now. Instead, I settle on the harp stool. Instead of practising the things Mrs Roy's told me to work on, I pick out tunes of my own, little things at first then with more and more depth and harmony. There are a lot of times when I wince because the chords I pluck don't sound the same as in my head, but I decide the overall effect is still pretty impressive.  
  
How long is it since I've messed around on the harp like this? I did it a lot when I first got it, but I haven't played anything but exercises and other people's pieces for weeks. I didn't even realise how much I was missing it.  
  
The door opens slowly, brushing across the carpet. I stop playing, consider for a moment silencing the strings but instead decide to let them finish ringing. I don't turn to acknowledge whoever's coming in, just sit still on the stool with no attempt to hide my frustration. Just as I was starting to enjoy myself!  
  
"Sorry, Hugo," says Dad. I don't bother to acknowledge that I've heard him. "You can carry on; Rose asked to come downstairs."  
  
"No, it's fine." I turn around ready to stand up. "I can practise later."  
  
"I think she'd like you to play, actually." I freeze, uncertain. I don't like playing when my family are in the room, when I can't tell what they're thinking and I always feel like they're being polite so as not to upset me. "Right, Rosie?"  
  
"Play." For once, Rose's voice doesn't falter. Firm, decisive, commanding, a little hint of my bossy old Rose. "Play," she insists, then adds more softly, "please."  
  
I swallow and swing back round to face the harp. A second to collect myself. To decide what to play, to find the right notes, and to settle my feet on the pedals. I want to play something simple, something she'll recognise, so I pick out the muggle nursery rhymes that I remember Mum singing to us when we were younger.  
  
Dad and Rose are silent, just listening. What's Rose thinking? Is she enjoying it, or has she lost focus already? Yes, she asked me to play, but maybe she was actually just parroting Dad's words. She didn't necessarily know what they meant...  
  
No, she's past that stage. She asks for things all the time, of her own accord, fully aware of what she's saying. Things like telling us she's hungry or thirsty or wants to go to bed. Apparently she asked Dad to bring her downstairs, and if she could manage to make that request it suggests she does know what she's saying. She _did_ ask me to play. At least at the time, she thought she wanted me to play. But whether she still does, or whether she's bored...  
  
There's a muffled thud and something heavy begins to shuffle across the carpet. I hear Dad's urgent whisper of "Rosie!", but don't stop playing because if something serious had happened he'd be doing more than whispering. I've nearly finished the piece, and when I have I can find out what's going on.  
  
Rose - I assume it's Rose - shuffles right up next to be and stops. Then there's an alien note, one I know I didn't play, but I ignore it and carry on. Then another unexpected note, and my mind whirls. I don't like other people playing my harp, let alone interrupting my practise by doing it... but Rose is actually doing something of her own accord. If she wants to pluck my harp strings, to copy me and make sounds of her own... that's a good sign, surely.  
  
I stop, but the sound doesn't. Rose picks at the lower strings, testing them one by one, then strums her hand across several in one go. She chuckles softly as she does it again and again, and however protective I might be of my instrument I can't bring myself to stop her.  
  
Dad's soft footsteps disappear out of the door, but I'm more focussed on Rose. She plucks out more notes, giggling away, and she's still like that when two sets of footsteps slip back into the room. Mum and Dad don't say anything, just sit down on the sofa and apparently watch. I play some of the higher notes, and Rose plucks the lower ones, and she laughs away happily.  
  
Very carefully, very cautiously, I reach towards her. It's probably a bad idea - I'll end up jolting her out of this wonderful bubble of happiness - but I can't stop myself.  
  
"Rose," I murmur, and she stops playing and falls silent.  
  
I shouldn't have spoken. I should have just let her enjoy herself until she got bored and crawled away. But no, I had to interrupt her, to spoil the moment. It's too late to take it back now.  
  
Another hand touches mine. A thin, weak, cold little hand. I hold onto it carefully, desperately careful not to hurt its owner. "Hu-go," Rose says slowly. She hasn't said my name since she came home.  
  
I haven't heard her say it since Christmas, I realise.  
  
"Hello, Rose," I whisper.  
  
I guide her hand to the strings and help her pick out not just random notes but a tune. She doesn't resist, but lets me control her arm. The Rose I know would have tugged free, would never have been as docile and cooperative. Despite all the improvements, this Rose doesn't feel like my sister.  
  
Almost as if she read my mind, Rose tugs her hand away. A smile plays on my lips as I release her.  
  
“Play, Hugo,” she commands. “You play.”  
  
“All right.” What to play? It’s obvious: her song, the one I learnt for her. Is it too sad? Well, we can’t be happy all the time or it wouldn’t feel special when we were. And sometimes, sad is beautiful. “This is your song, Rose. It’s called _Lo, How a Rose_ – it’s got your name in it, see? I learnt it for you.”  
  
My fingers find the strings instinctively and I pluck them softly, gently. Rose, on the floor next to me, listens in silence, as into the music I put all the emotions that have built up worrying about her. When I finish the song, Rose shuffles over and rests her head on my knee, and I stroke the wild mop of hair.  
  
“Nice, Hugo,” Rose murmurs.  
  
It’s as though the music’s brought some release, and perhaps it has. Or maybe it’s the fact that Rose is here, remembers my name, is resting her head against my knee and humming the tune to herself. My throat's hard and painful, my eyes stinging. That's all they're good for, isn't it? Making me look like a baby.  
  
But right now, I don’t care.


	24. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

“Dia duit agus failte go dtí an Comórtas Domhanda Quidditch, uimhir ceithre cead, fiche á hocht - hello and welcome to the four hundred and twenty eighth Quidditch World Cup. Fáilte go hÉireann – welcome to Ireland!” The magically amplified voice booms around the packed stadium and is greeted by a cheer from the crowd. Rose grips my hand tightly, and I wriggle it a little because her nails are digging in.  
  
Music strikes up and I focus on that, vaguely paying attention to Lily describing what’s going on in the stadium. Not just one harp but perhaps hundreds, and small drums rapping out a jolly rhythm that makes everyone want to dance along. There’s certainly quite an atmosphere in here, the cool night air almost pulsating with the throb of the music and the restless high spirits of the packed stands.  
  
“Leprechauns!” Lily exclaims. “Dad said there’d be leprechauns!” Applause and laughter ring around the stadium, and I do my best to shut it out. Apart from the music, it seems this is going to be a very visual event.  
  
Rose chuckles softly next to me, and a smile plays on my lips. At least she’s enjoying herself.  
  
There’s an excited ‘ooh’ from the crowd. “Two flying horses just took off at one side of the stadium, pulling a golden chariot. They’re flying in a big arc, and there are a couple of people on the chariot who look like they’re painting a rainbow… it doesn’t sound as pretty when I describe it, does it?”  
  
I shrug.  
  
“I believe,” says Mum softly from behind us, “that those are aethonans – chestnut winged horses native to Ireland. Related to thestrals and abraxans. They’re like the abraxans which pull the Beauxbatons chariot, only smaller and with darker coats.”  
  
“And the leprechauns are climbing on the rainbow!” exclaims Lily excitedly, cutting across Mum’s explanation. “They’re scrambling all over it and sliding down and dancing on top and swinging from it… how’s that even possible? Rainbows aren’t solid…”  
  
“Magic,” I remind her.  
  
“Oh, yeah.”  
  
The crowd roars, and Lily explains. “A load of people on brooms just flew out. And down on the ground… they’re carrying some big objects – I’m not sure what they are; it’s quite hard to tell from this distance - around. And now they’re making the objects float up to hang in the air…”  
  
“Barrels,” Aunt Ginny tells us, a note of excitement in her voice. “I believe we’re about to witness a game of Aingingein.”  
  
“Of what?”  
  
“It’s an old Irish sport, from before Quidditch. Often seen as dangerous, but I think it’s safer than Quidditch really. They set the barrels on fire then players have to fly through without catching fire – and if they do catch fire, they’re disqualified but it’s easy enough to put the fire out by magic. It’s not like Quidditch, where the Bludgers can do serious damage…”  
  
“Yeah, they’re setting the barrels on fire now!” says Lily excitedly. The crowd rises in a cheer as apparently the game begins, and I can guess vaguely what’s going on from the reactions in the stands – groans when someone catches fire and is disqualified, applause and cheering when someone finishes the course or executes a particularly good manoeuvre. Times are announced after each run by the magically amplified voice. Smoke drifts across to where we’re sitting from the burning barrels, a sharp and bitter note. The winner of the Aingingein match is announced, the name met with a roar of approval, then the mood shifts.  
  
“Fairy rings!” murmurs Mum as an ‘ooh!’ ripples round the stadium. “There are six of them, three at each end, white circles, made up of fungi – look through your omnioculars, Lily. They’ve even got imps dancing in them – though I doubt they’re the kind of imp usually found in fairy rings! I think the last World Cup opening ceremony was enough of a warning about including dangerous creatures…”  
  
“Á dhaoine uaisle – Ladies and Gentlemen…” The stadium hushes to as close to silence as anyone could expect, though the music still drives on. The drumbeat’s shifting now, becoming still faster and more urgent and also a far simpler rhythm. “Chuirigí fáilte mór do na himreoirí – please welcome the players!”  
  
The stadium seems to tremble with the force of the roar that fills it, and yet over all the noise the announcement can be clearly heard. “An Bhrasaíl – Brazil!” There can’t be that many Brazillian supporters here already, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get a good welcome.  
  
“Ah!” says Mum. “So that’s what they’re using the fairy rings for! Hugo, the Brazillian team just flew around the stadium – and showed off a few tricks in the progress – and they’re landing in one of the rings. Though… I’m not sure how they’re going to split it. Sixteen teams and six rings…”  
  
“The middle rings on each side are bigger,” Aunt Ginny interrupts. “They’ll probably put three in each of them and two in each other the others. But we’ll find out soon enough – even _you_ must appreciate the flying here!” Her tone in the last part is pleasing, not rude, and in response to the cheer which has just welcomed the Bulgarian team.  
  
Canada and Denmark both make their entries, followed by Finland and then Germany. The Indian team arrive, followed by ‘An Ísiltír – The Netherlands!’ Ginny makes noises of appreciation at the latter team’s performance – especially since ‘they’ve never ranked internationally before!’  
  
“Sasana – England!” gets the biggest roar yet – probably because it’s not that hard for English supporters to come over. Dad expresses his support very loudly indeed, making Rose dig her nails into my hand again. I’ve lost count of how many teams have arrived and how many are still to come.  
  
 “Stáit Aontaithe Mheiriceá – United States of America!” The American team make their way round the stadium then down to one of the rings on the ground, and they’re followed immediately by Japan and then Malaysia. Despite how many teams have already arrived, Mauritania (“I didn’t even know they _had_ a team,” says Dad to himself) gets as impressive a welcome as all the others.  
  
“An Namaib – Namibia!” announces the voice, and then “Nua-Shéalainn – New Zealand!” As the New Zealand team make their way to the ground, the noise in the stadium seems to build rather than fade, and a moment later the reason becomes clear. “Éire – Ireland!”  
  
The music’s drowned out completely as a hundred thousand people roar out approval. I cheer with them, swept along by the mood, until I slowly register that Rose is sitting frozen and stiff beside me. It must be really overwhelming for her, I realise – I’m not at all convinced she’s fully aware of what’s going on, and even if she is it’s a lot to cope with.  
  
I turn in my seat. “Mum!” I say urgently. “Rose!” She’s out of her seat immediately and round to crouch in front of Rose.  
  
“Rosie! How about a little break? Yes? We’ll go outside for a bit. We can come back later if you like... no, Hugo, you stay here.” Mum wheels Rose out, and I slowly turn my attention back to the opening ceremony itself.   
  
“…Draíochtaire Graínne Ní Loinsigh.” I missed the start of the announcement, but I’ve attended enough official events to recognise when a speaker’s being introduced. Sure enough, after a round of applause, the cheers die down somewhat.  
  
“Céad míle failte romhaibh go léir - a hundred thousand welcomes to you all!” A woman’s voice echoes round the stadium. “The Irish people have been looking forward to this day, when we can at last welcome the nations of the world to our shores and show them why we love our little island. A cosy, welcoming land, the home of scholars and green pastures, full of the beauty and life that fires the imaginations of poets.” She pauses to let the Irish fans voice their approval at the description of their country, while I wait impatiently for her to get to the point.  
  
“And now, for a few weeks, this little island will also play host to the finest Quidditch on the planet. At the end of the tournament, one team will lift the trophy – and the Irish people will cheer our team to that goal, as other nations will do for their own teams – but win or lose the most important part of “Quidditch World Cup” is not “Cup”, or even “Quidditch”, but “World”. Athletes of sixteen nationalities are down there on the stadium floor, waiting for me to stop talking…” A laugh ripples round the stands. “…and in this crowd are people of still more, because there's more to the Quidditch World Cup than just a chance to display your national pride. Over the next few weeks, our little country will play host to the finest Quidditch since the Kenmare Kestrals played the Ballycastle Bats last October…” She gets another laugh and a scattered cheer. “…but more importantly it will play host to good sportsmanship, teamwork, and friendly competition, with an opportunity for people of all nations to lay aside their differences to appreciate the first-class Quidditch resulting from years of training and preparation on behalf of every player.  
  
“And Quidditch is not just about the players. Every team has coaches, managers, groundsmen, mediwizards, publicists… there are as many non-players as players in today’s sports teams, and all of them are as vital to the success of the team as the athletes themselves. And still more are involved with the staging of this tournament – umpires, groundsmen, mediwizards, security guards, stadium builders, cleaners, bartenders…” The last one gets another laugh. “We’ve welcomed the athletes, but now let’s have a cheer for all the non-players whose roles are equally important in this World Cup!”  
  
She carries on for a bit longer, about fair play and sportsmanship and how proud Ireland is to be hosting the World Cup, and how enjoyment in the sport is worth more than winning or losing. Yeah right, I think. The whole point of the Quidditch World Cup is to determine who’s best, and that’s all about winning.  
  
The introduction of the next speaker draws my attention back to proceedings, as it’s announced first in Irish and then English, “please welcome the Chair of the International Confederation of Wizards' Quidditch Committee, Miss Gabriela Piotrowska.” The woman’s greeted by a thunder of applause, and she waits for it to die down before speaking.  
  
“Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, in just a few minutes the four hundred and twenty eighth Quidditch World Cup will commence, hosted in Ireland for the fifth time in the  five hundred and forty one year history of the tournament...”  
  
“What?” I say out loud, shaking my head. “That’s dumb… Lily!”  
  
“What is?” she asks.  
  
“If it’s only been going for five hundred and forty one years, this can’t be the four hundred and twenty eighth World Cup…”  
  
“How do you…”  
  
“Come _on_ , Lily! If it’s held every four years, it’s _way_ less than the four hundred and twenty eighth World Cup.” I frown, trying to calculate it. “More like the one hundred and twenty… no, thirty… five-ish? Five hundred and forty one DEFINITELY isn’t a multiple of four!”  
  
“Oh,” says Lily, “yeah. Oh well. Ask Aunt Hermione later – she probably knows.”  
  
“Oh yeah, good idea.” I turn in my seat. “Mum?”  
  
“She’s not here!” Lily reminds me. “She went out with Rose.”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” I twist back around, slouching and crossing my legs under my chair. I must have looked like a right idiot, addressing an empty seat. And forgetting why Mum went out, forgetting about Rose…  
  
If it wasn’t for Rose, I’d be able to enjoy this properly. I wouldn’t be sitting here worrying about her, feeling guilty for forgetting about her, feeling guilty for enjoying myself while she’s… And I’m angry with her for making me feel guilty, and even guiltier at the fact I’m angry – she didn’t choose to be ill, and it must be infinitely worse for her than for me. And it must be worse for Mum, too.  
  
I’m snapped back to the present by the massive roar that fills the stadium. An anthem blares out, and eventually Lily remembers to lean in and murmur in my ear.  
  
“The fairy rings are rising up into the air, turning solid, shrinking and twisting to become vertical. They’re moving to hover… oh, of course! They’re turning into the hoops, ready for the games! They’ve stopped, completely unsupported…”  
  
“Well, why would they need supports?” I point out. “Magic’ll hold them up, and putting poles or whatever underneath would be unnecessary and just get in the way.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess. Just usually the hoops are on poles, maybe because it’s traditional.”  
  
“Traditional is just another word for old-fashioned.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess…”  
  
“Stop being cynical, Hugo,” Uncle Harry tells me. “Sometimes, pointless traditions persist simply because no one thinks to do otherwise. It’s one thing to criticise, quite another to actually do something about it. Why don’t we just enjoy the ceremony?”  
  
“Because we’re at the speechifying stage and it’s boring,” I tell him.  
  
He laughs. “True, but at least they’re relatively interesting speeches. Not like some I’ve had to sit through…”  
  
“Yeah, whatever.” I shrug and turn my attention back to the ceremony.  
  
Except that the ceremony seems to be over. I missed most of the talking due to not actually concentrating, and by the sound of it the tournament was officially opened whilst I was distracted. I stretch in my seat as the music strikes up again, tapping my foot to the beat and listening.  
  
“Slán abhaile – have a safe journey home,” booms the voice over the top of the music, and the atmosphere changes as everyone relaxes and begins to leave. Not that they’re leaving very quickly, by the sound of it – people are standing up and moving around a little, but mostly just to gather in small groups and chat.  
  
The music drives on, and the grown-ups talk as I resist the urge to yawn. I’m kind of enjoying it here – there’s the crowd, and the chaos of background noise, but there’s good music and it seems impossible to be miserable. The arrival of rain doesn’t dampen the mood, though it does dampen my hair a little; it’s only light, more mist than raindrops. I’m surprised that they don’t have weather-proof shields around the stadium, particularly to protect the musical instruments, but maybe they thought that rain was all part of the fun of an open air event. The instruments probably have impervius charms on them or something. Well, I don’t have a problem with a little bit of water.  
  
The tune changes to one that apparently everyone knows and the crowd starts singing – though the number of people singing means that the words are unintelligible. The lyrics might be impossible to catch, but the tune’s easy enough to hum along. Yes, I don’t like big events, but this one is a _lot_ better than most. Yes, it was irritating the way people kept cheering and I could never tell why, but at least there’s good music.  
  
I do a good job of holding in my yawns, however Lily can’t stop hers and eventually Aunt Ginny notices. It takes another five minutes for the grown-ups to say goodbye, of course, and then we join the slow stream of people making their way out of the stadium. Mum hasn’t come back; she’s probably taken Rose to the tent.  
  
Outside the stadium, the air is much colder. The rain is now falling steadily, muffling sound rather, but I’m still surrounded by called goodbyes and strains of unfamiliar songs sung badly out of tune. Out-of-tune music is something I despise, but it’s sung enthusiastically and I guess people are enjoying themselves.  
  
As we’re leaving the stadium anyway, I no longer have any real need to hold in my yawns. It’s been a long day, taking Rose to the research centre so they can examine her and look for a treatment and wandering round muggle tourist attractions with Mum whilst she was in there. Dad’s had an even longer day, I guess, having been doing security things early this morning, but wandering round cathedrals and monuments for hours is way more tiring than you’d expect. And boring, because it’s all very visual, like we went to a library and Mum gushed a lot over a book. If it had been a book in Braille, it might have been interesting, but it wasn’t.  
  
Once I’ve started yawning, I can’t stop, and they get wider and wider as Dad takes me to the tent, where Mum whispers a greeting and a warning us not to disturb Rose. She helps me enter quietly and get ready for bed, with a quick kiss on the forehead and a murmured goodnight before she leaves me to climb in and pull the blankets close around me. For a while, I lie awake listening to the gentle snores from the lower bunk and the patter of rain on the canvas above my head. When Rose is better, I’ll have to remember to tease her about the snoring.  
  
It’s such a normal sound, no hint that all’s not as it should be. I must seem normal when I’m asleep. And I am normal, really; I think in the same way as most people, and I’m not controlled by my disability. It’s just that my eyes don’t work, and while that’s inconvenient it doesn’t define me, I won’t _let_ it define me. It might be harder, but I can find a way to do whatever I want, and I reckon I have the determination to do that.  
  
I lie on my back, listening to Rose snoring and the rain pattering on the canvas. It took Rose’s illness to make me realise how normal and lucky I am. She sounds normal enough, asleep and snoring gently on the lower bunk, but that normality is a lie.  
  
The rain falls steadily outside, just a layer of canvas between it and me. Not like hiding in a house, in an artificial world. My mind drifts back to the opening ceremony, to a hundred harps playing together, the rain taking the place of the drums that accompanied before. The tunes grow slower, softer, more beautiful, as I drift the little distance that remains towards sleep. Outside, the rain continues to fall. I know that when I wake up in the morning, the world will be clean and fresh as it always is after rainfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that’s it. OH WAIT, IT’S NOT! There is a sequel, entitled Rainbow - please check it out! Thank you to all my readers - especially HPFF's DracosGirl012, AlexFan, BellaLestrange87, and everyone else who’s reviewed - I really appreciate it, and your lovely words get me through those days when I'm worrying about whether I'm just wasting my time. And thank you too to everyone who’s stuck with Rainfall all the way.
> 
> Oh, and there’s also this amazing person known as MargaretLane who reviews every single chapter as soon as it’s up, yells at me when I do mean things to characters, champions this story all over the site, and without whom I probably wouldn’t have marked Rainfall “completed” (it probably wouldn’t have made it past halfway). She was also responsible for the Irish language in this chapter. So yeah, thank you so much, I genuinely couldn't have done it without you.
> 
> So with this chapter, for the first time ever, I actually finished a novel, and I don't have to be sad about leaving it because all my characters are coming with me along to the sequel. I hope you all will be too, and I hope you enjoyed this first part of Hugo's story! 
> 
> ~ Leo


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